At the Cuban coffee shop,
leaning back, feet up on chair,
looking thoughtful, working on laptop.
A summer mix of scruffy and neat:
slicked-back hair and smartish shirt
over washed-out grey cutoff jeans,
sneakers standard black low Converse.
Is he reading, writing me
on that little computer screen
as I am him? That would be weird.
He stretches, yawns, strokes his beard.
Of course, I’m being silly;
It’s unlikely I’m his subject really,
and now he no longer types,
just reads something amusing, smiles.
But I’d be interested; he’s not bad-looking—
seems intelligent, maybe bookish;
dirty blond, light complexion,
nice legs that he’s flexing.
Our eyes cross paths, but I can’t tell
if there are sparks. His headphones
discourage a greeting as he checks his cell,
puts some funky shades on.
T. Allen Culpepper