At The Perimeter

I don’t know exactly just what it is about cafes. Toasted Brewery serves their latte with a lotus flower in the milk-froth. I normally sit near the swing doors watching the morning crowd, without the internal sensations other than from my coffee.
Two older women do the same thing when i’m there. If my papers no good at holding my attention their conversation makes alright entertainment. For a little.
One’s name is Janette, but the other doesn’t address first names as liberally. Janette has a bob cut like a lego hair-piece that is golden and amber coloured. Then untitled has bushy and unkept red hair, with a husky and frank element to conversation.
Sometimes when it is bad enough, i go to the franchise, which is three shops up from my flat. I’ll enjoy immigrants working a till. I walk in with a mild crowd and then wait.
“This is what i’d like,” I say.
They list the sizes in monotone, then i pay. Only skimming the skin of social pleasantry. There isn’t any seating.
I’ll then walk inside the door of my flat, then i shut the door to the hallway. Today I listened to rain pelt the glass of the window. The clock ticked through bright cacophony of the rain fall.
I wanted to avoid the white noise of the flat, it was too early for that.
I turned on the independent radio station on my stereo. I don’t know exactly just what it is about the radio for music.
I sat down on my recliner wondering what the weekend might be like for the radio.

O. So World Weary?

When you truly believe in these jokes you’re telling
I worry for you
I go to bed and i’m worn until night
The world ain’t this much horror and blue
I think you’ll find it’s only slightly Orwellian in the West.
Your cynical anxiety is the bubonic you look at;
What great understanding can have you yourself so miserable?
You jot realism on your name-tag
loosen your mouths cross-hairs on wonder and dreaming.
Then whistling in faces of people;
We’re tired of that sound
How you’re shallow feeling,
I don’t want to say anything about anything when i’m low.