waiting for kashmali
sounds like the title of a book, like
waiting for godot
only less cryptic.
waiting at Cafe OST
on the corner of 12th & A
French doors open wide, piano keys tinkle
the rain a misty haze between the patrons and the street
the clouds swiftly cross the sky
as if the gods are forcing them
across the global divide.
i feel as if I’ve stopped, and so has time.
there is a certain civility
in the hexagonal mosaic floor,
worn down by time and dancing feet
or so I’d like to imagine, to believe.
an exposed brick wall
the milky white marble cast iron mix
a feather in my latte
a crisp breeze blows.
my mind wanders, and wonders
if this scene, like others before
will find itself somewhere else
beautiful and blurred.