I soak up the sun from a seat at Starbucks,
it is solitude's port of call,
serving fixes in a spoon, to a grim republic
whose trappings peel like a vinyl floor.
On the body, on my skin, is a layer of something
that I squirm, eel-like, from within.
This is not me. I am not of this
burning buoy dictating the last hour
of a deceased pyre, raging against the light.
Instead, I fold the edges of my arms and read
to the be-bop beat, wondering why
strange solitude chose pandemonium to rest its feet.
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What can I say? I'm in love with lunchtime!
