pastime-a poem.

sometimes my mind drifts
out to the center stage
to ask the golden leaves to dance.
to smile when the sun finally says
good morning from underneath the clouds
with arms spread and chin lifted.

sometimes i drift inside
my 1877 cappuccino.
warm, just enough for a crisp
sixty-something october morning.
the leftover coffee kissed milk
creates rims like age lines
on the inside of my cup
starting to convince me time
might not be such a bad thing.

a man with a newspaper
arrives at eight-thirty am to
read and sip alone.
is this his favorite pastime too?

i wonder what it might be like
to be in love here
be in love, anywhere, really.
on the contrary,
i feel a white rose trail up
to my nose and poke me-
taunting my tears from the passion i feel
in this moment.
maybe after all i’m still meant to be

like the man with the newspaper.

everyone has someone
and my someone has me
i think they have a lot of fun together.
passion seems strongest when
the presence is few.
its clearer air
without thoughts or expressions
taking up space.

i smile easier.
at the way old friends look at each other.
a man with a mustard colored jacket laughs
at a little girl he doesn’t know
and pats her head.
her mom smiles as they pass me.
a puppy looks at me intently
and i’m determined to win
this contest.
i do,
you cute little loser.

chameleon leaves surround
the strength of four brown, barked friends
but every once in a while
one parachutes to the stones below.
i wonder is it
because it’s life is over,
or just to make room for a new one?

once i resisted growing up,
i don’t mind so much anymore.
every day i’m older
their will be a dreamer in me.
a little different.
a little different is better, i think.

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