I’m poured amongst people with
a purpose
each beating familiar paths
founded in their grooves like Scalextric
this is not for me- I am the
decaf man
Mr Canderel
low in sugar, blood pressure and ambition
a leaf remaining through the strainer of industry
the choice for me is what coffee
to start the paper frontways or back
Danish or raisin toast
who to be today
and where to drink:
internet cafes are not my cup of tea
conversationless, characterless
just the burr of hastily thought communication
and swift, sweating glimpses of pixellated porn
the Superfluous Nipple on Anne
Street
offers lattes for a dollar ten
they are the temperature of lava
and come in wide, voluminous cups
with handles the snug fit of your little finger
like lifting a spaceship by a pinkie ring
there’s an adjoining gym
where you can work out in order to hold them
you spot the regulars-
they drink their coffees with an air of superiority
index fingers ballooned
like a cartoon anvil’s been dropped on them
moving past one another at the door
knuckles dragged along the hardwood
beating chests and whooping good mornings
aged celebrity mags
crumb crammed, corrugated by spillage
jostle for the flash bulbs of our eyes
one promises Posh and Becks as you’ve never seen them before
he’s dressed as a woolly mammoth
she’s selling shoes out of a hotdog cart
to my right, two Japanese girls
taught English by an Australian man
order coffee in English with an Australian twang
and I’m thinking who first looked
at a carrot and thought,
“do you know what, that’ll go well in a cake..”
it’s a strange mix, that of carrot and cake
I presume it was trial and error- cauliflower, parsnip..
“say, Ian, that Yam Flan’s not working out, let’s try carrot..”
a woman sits behind the counter
she offers homemade current buns
and pale thighs
translucent flesh spilling from a short skirt
she winks as she catches my eye
suggestively strokes a cheese and onion quiche
I wonder about her, her life-
the house, the busy husband, the 2.3 kids
(2.4 would probably be too much of a handful)
her smiles rarely seem genuine
she never gives herself in conversation
and all the pills she takes
it’s a wonder she doesn’t rattle like a spraycan
the free are dotted around the
place
a beautiful woman with an ugly personality
sits with her boyfriend in the next booth
she orders a thimbleful of tea
an egg and cress corner of sandwich
on granary, no butter, and please more cress than egg
I’m watching my weight
he rolls his eyes and his r’s
tells her she’s gorrrrrrrrgeous
she pats her concave belly with a sigh
I feel like telling her to eat
what she likes
be who she likes
treat your life like it’s a science experiment
but I have the metabolism of a hummingbird
and am mauling a piece of flapjack
the width of a hippo’s noggin
I take a serviette and fold
it in two
then again and once again
tear a piece from the middle
a couple from near the edge
fold it open and it looks like Errol Brown
I place the serviette in the half empty cup
call the waitress over
and tell her I didn’t order hot chocolate
oh I love pranks
I once woke up with just one eyebrow…
it was lying on the pillow next to mine
I never did find out whose it was
but I digress
this is not how I escape reality
for I’ve never yet embraced reality
so have nowhere from which to run
all I’d like is more toast
copyright Ash Dickinson