Oodled in through the swing doors his literary mind
A few steps behind his limp fedora, cheap cigar.
The tearoom loungers dressed to the nines and la-di-da
Surveyed with frank disdain, took him in, defined, declined.
Scans them back. “Red angry pustules from a dose of clap.”
Thoughts laced with meander juice. “Know what I’m doing.”
(The story teller’s stock reflex on spotting a trap.)
“I can do this … No probs. I know the way out. Chewing.”
Orders coffee, two week old doughnuts, a cheesy wrap.
Ladies discretely confer deeming themselves refined.
“A dotty old grandpa. Hardly my cup of tea, dear.
What’s he doing? Pulling out a pen and notebook. Ah!
That’s it then. All’s forgiven. And not a bad behind.”
Everything scared me
With a slight readjustment
Now all is sacred
You always did your best
From your own point of view
And who am I to judge
Beyond my point of view?