poem 2 : Coffeeshop, 6.45a.m.

From here , in the morning's half light, i can see the school kids
saunter across the street
while taking my daily fix
of beehoon, tea, and cigarettes.

Of course this harshly lit sorry-state place is no Starbucks
not with its battered fibreglass tables
the cat on the floor
eyeing discarded butts.

Sometimes the old cleaner ambles around rubbing the tables with an oily rag.
The TV's on, blaring
No one's really watching
Who cares the Yanks' in Baghdad?

The guys, they are talking about the BIG one that got away last night
the 4-D winner the losers almost bought.
Wrong numbers, tough luck.
Five tables away you can hear their collective sigh.

A moron meanders amongst the tables coughing, wheezing loudly
We were spooked silly
Strung tighter than a bow
The idiot might find a fist in his belly.

My friend the cabby, took a gulp of black coffee and stares with murderous eyes
He's scared of the SARS bug.
He's taking home peanuts.
Lately there's nothing nice.

Reminded my friend, between bouts of paranoia and hokkien expletives.
i have to catch the 7.30.
Buses don't wait,
there's another mad day in the office.



10-04-2003
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Notes : It is my habit to go to this coffeeshop near my place to have my breakfast in the morning before heading to the office. It's quite a badly maintained place, but it's the only one around, and the food is , well, edible. I wrote this piece during the SARS outbreak.