Inside the Coffeehouse on a Sunday Afternoon

sitting by the fire
enjoying soup and homemade bread
reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
pausing occasionally, observing

the young girl at the table in front of me
intent upon her spread of books of history

over by the wall to my left
a young bearded man
concentrating on chemistry
a crinkled brow of panic after too much partying

a young couple observes the displays
he touches her, moving his fingers along the
exposed skin between the top of her pants and bottom of her shirt
she moves to bend over the pastry display
away from his hand
it follows her and resumes touching
as if to reassure himself she’s real

the girl with the history books
puts on her jacket, slings her purse over her shoulder
she must be leaving
but she walks only a few feet to buy a fruit-filled pastry
returns to her table, removes her purse
now purse on her shoulder again, another few feet
to heat her pastry in the microwave
back to the table, purse off the shoulder
again, almost immediately
purse back to shoulder and shuffles over to the free re-fill coffee
filling her cup, returning to her table
there must be jewels and gold
in her small purse

two hours have passed
observations fading, soul relaxed
remembering a free concert being held
I walk out and up the street