A Day At The Bookstore Poem by Mona Lisa Aspiras

I sit today at the bookstore's cafe.
Another day, another month, another year.
Same old, same old.
Sofa is tired, smelly
like a homeless man.
In fact, hundreds have made it their comfortable refuge.

I look around, warily.
Around me, in my own little, yet shared
and separate world,
there play all manners of individuals.
I, for one, play the poet,
as I compose this poem right now,
out of boredom and curiosity.

To my front left, there sits an interviewer
and the prospective employee.
I look around again.
To my right, there is an aspiring writer,
typing an essay in his laptop.
Could be a budding journalist also.

Directly in front of me, there was
(because he already left)
a mysterious, quirky, crippled,
short Chinese man.
I see him often here at the cafe.
His routine: no coffee, drinks or food,
but a couple of magazines to read,
browse and enjoy...
(perhaps learning English?)

To my extreme left, a multi-racial couple.
An African-American guy with dreadlocks,
and a slender Caucasian girl.
Together they work on some type of homework,
or work-related project.

Now to my immediate left,
a stocky old matron with her daughter,
(or grand-daughter)sit down.

And me, now me in the spotlight,
What do I do in the meantime?
I sip my mocha latte,
break off chunks of my double-dipped,
chocolate chip giant cookie, and munch away
like a zombie moron...
entranced with life in this bookstore's cafe.