This vintage French cafe,
Tucked away at the end of the alley—
A retreat to lunatics such as myself:
Birdwatching and daydreaming,
Songs, sermons, Dickens, Dickinson.
Little infants frolic around my frock,
Bemused by my response, or lack thereof.
Now and then a prince stops by,
for champagne and strawberry tart,
But this heart no longer flutters—
For a prince or for a pint.
Mediocrity creeps behind me—
A silent devil yet the loudest truth,
But ha, I already live on the dark side of the moon.
She asks for my order, I say I want nothing,
But solitude in the face of this synthetic sanity.
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