The boredom of guilt by Colin James

The cafe with the weird name

was empty save for a hat wearer

and unfriendly counter help.

The choices had already been made,

no mention of missuses nor

random crumbs on immaculate tables.

 

My table was wobbly so I moved.

The hat noticed, stared perhaps in thought

or in doubt of my motiveless charisma.

I had a book to pander to

opened it and drank my latte.

 

When the rush hour crowd arrived

I did my best to appear preoccupied.

What size tip can be appropriate when

departure is of itself an acknowledgement?

 

Colin James has a chapbook of poems A thoroughness not deprived of absurdity
out from Pskis Porch Press. You can find it here.

Inspired by

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