Cafes Poem by Max Reif

Sometimes I think real life
only takes place in cafes,
those reflective islands
in the middle of the stream
where living, we watch life go by.

Could we have all our meals in cafes?
Do some job there between meals—
stringing beads, stuffing envelopes,
writing novels? Then, when it's dark,
the way the clerk in my Indian hotel
put a mat on his desk for the night,
we could put a mat on our table and sleep.

Ah, but then a cafe would be home.
Lots of people live
on the sidewalk already,
and most of them don't like it.

Maybe what we need then is a home,
and a home away from home, too.