What’s the Story?

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.

 

Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

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