Plan 9: Afternoon at the Bookstore

I pretend not to notice the grimed armrest,
and I won’t think about the many butts that
sunk and shifted in this soft lounger. I’m Cozy
in my favorite cotton t-shirt: a Dylan print of
blue and gray, the young waif blowing his harp.

In the near seat sits a “granola.” I only recently
learned this term, which means neo-hippie. She
wears no shoes, but her feet are clean, and I like
the turquoise earrings. She exudes Patchouli, and
reads from a book titled “Toltec Wisdom.”

My thumb pinches the pasty $2 brownie and
the caramel layer oozes and strings a rope bridge
from hand to mouth, which snaps when my arm
extends. I take care not to smudge “Nightmare of
Ecstasy: The Life and Art of Edward D. Wood Jr.,”
the treasured bio I’ll buy before leaving. My lip
sinks in the milk foam, carefully slurp tests the
temperature of a $4 Café Au Lait.

The lounger is comfortable but undignified to rise
from. I create commotion getting turned to watch
the rainstorm. Puddle jumping shoppers soak in
strip-mall paradise. A string of caramel has tangled
in Bob’s wild hair, and I discover the sticky milk line
above my lip, and lick. I am a rain man who thrives
on mild melancholy, perverse in my fascination with
oddballs. I crunch a $3 blueberry scone, and send
crumbs tumbling between the cushions.