Misfit Cafe

In the little cafe
on dusty old South Broadway,
I join the other misfits for breakfast:
the old man with broken shoes
reading tomes on the history of the world,
the woman who rides up and down the street
on the trike (the one with the basket and umbrella),
the guys who don't have to be at the office, ever,
the women who don't belong to anybody.

Outside, the world roars by,
afraid of being late,
but I can relax in the peacefulness of this place,
and its feeling of timelessness.
This is the America I love,
where with dedication, and a little orginality,
you can still lose on your own terms.
Les Reed poems