Coffee Houses and Anemic Sheets

Amber lights glowing on the walls,
throwing shadows on beatnik Kerouac
ghosts who sit among the unsuspecting
patrons of sort who frequent the coffee
house imbibing on espresso and vintage
wine expounding on anti-establishment
philosophy which gets thrown into the air,
like a ball waiting to be caught and then
thrown again and recaught.

Expressive hands adorned with jeweled
college rings wave excitedly during the
free-for-all conversations while bobbing
beret heads laugh at a joke or two;
the poet of the hour steps onto the rickety and
scratched stage----his platform is for rhetoric he can
only understand; his goatee is narrow, but not
his philosophy according to him. Clearing his throat
he begins:

Man, I'm like a white sheet hanging on the line----
tossed around by the wind, waiting to be dried
by the warm breath of the wind god and vitamin C
from the sun. Bugs are crawling all over me,
and wooden clothespins pinch my bleached
nerves. Man, I'm tired of hanging around
and being a parachute for creepy, crawling
creatures who are parasites on my being. Like I
wanna be free----free of 100 percent cotton,
hospital corners, quarter folds, and stuffed in
some drawer with matching anemic pillow cases.
Man, call me a bongo drum beating to the
rhythm off graffiti on brick walls, facing
over-flowing dumpsters, and fat rats stuffing
their mouths with garbage food.

Man, call me a cloud, rising above automatic
washing machines, and like drifting away from
push-button conveniences. Call me a fly-away
sheet, like I can be any where, any time because
of my liberty. I'm soaring like a glider, riding
on air, like teasing the birds on their treetops,
climbing higher and higher until everything
looks like a patchwork quilt.

Man, like sheets can dream, can't they?