Wild Oat Café

--(a fedora poem)--

a friend took me to the Wild Oat Café where all the other frustrated artists eat grass and berries where time passes but the steam from coffee and tofu soup doesn’t

a painter she met years ago shares his sorrow and success cool in his frustration, but his hands reveal anger, the way wind chimes blow out a storm

I wait, comment sometimes, while chewing scones hard enough to replace brick walls he knows reiki, the right galleries, wants Montreal contacts so charms me up the old game of asking no questions

I’m beginning to get a handle on things like it’s easy for me to see straight through the double talk from neighbouring tables false-fronted writers, and would-be producers of no-shows

my friend notices my getting revved on the coffee my brain racing faster than Rossini’s overture what do I do when she listens to me?

I don’t have my trench coat, fedora , or even my cigar with her I have no need to babble like a talking head and there’s nothing else I need to tell her, either