Coffee, Common Ground, and an Observation

1.
Bob Dylan is giving me a dirty look
something about
me being
a wimp.
I just wanted a cup of joe
a couple of sugars
and a nice walk
but he looks serious
standing next to the counter
a steaming cup of his own
fogging up
from his hand;
I half tip my cap
half run away
into the
bitter
air.
Bukowski narrowly misses me
in a blue Volkswagen
and Chandler lets out a laugh
at my expense
from a shady spot
on the patio.
I shake the coffee that
spilled off of my hand
and keep
walking.
At the light a limo stops
and Nora Charles
pops out of a tinted window
she asks for directions
Nick shakes his head
just inside the car;
he mutters something
about me not knowing
which way
is which
then begins to shake a cocktail
as the window
rolls
back
up
Two men in black
pass me
in front of my apartment
thumbing their way across the nation
on their way
to Mexico
one looks over
flips me the bird,
and winks.

I step through my door
and stop
shake my head
and smile.


2.
Echoes in the dark
wind from an
unseen end
around the bend
safe
ideal
but only black
stretches on
wretches of the lost
groping for hope
you heart in hand
holding tight
hoping for a single,
flickering
bulb
still waiting
still walking

miles drag
fingers along your
spine
around your ankles
about you neck
trek further
passing wreck
after wreck
past lives
past dreams

then the air clears
and the darkness
seems
different
it wraps around you
like a warm bath
a glimmering lake
to swim; dim
at best
the light comes
softly, slowly
your feet didn't
bring it near
but you hear the
beating
grow
for it was
inside
waiting to show
when your
soul and
you mind
find

common
ground.


3.
Piles of books
looks from ghosts
the toast of literature
staring forward
waiting
breathless
for the next
last word
old wood creaks
between volumes
voices muttering
pages shuffling
cloth covers
snapping closed
posed are they
sitting on the
shelves
waiting
breathless
for the next
last word
you
don't
have
it
in
you.