Brunch in Williamsburg

I woke up this morning and stumbled out to brunch in

Williamsburg Brooklyn

The center of L.A.T.F.H. (look at this f*ing hipster)

I looked

I could have cried

They were young faces

Beautiful in their youth

Sophisticated  in their city airs

And mine counted now among them

Smiling back

An aping mask of leisure

That covers the questions and horrific awe

Do they know how  I am here like an old vagrant man

who rests thoughtfully in a garden not his own?

Do they see my dirty oversized shirt?

-Possibly dead bacteria stinking?

Is this moonglow face enough to dress up any outfit?

-Not my Sunday best

Are any of these gentles more than  café filler?

For all the talk is there substance here?

They eat such gourmet simplicities and have spirited drinks  served

As they talk on

-Gay as ever

Music goes underneath their sound in an old timey bent

At the horseshoe bar

A blonde to my left brings  greasy bacon to her teeth with pincer fingers

A nosey table of Chinese girls at my elbow eye an artist sketching faces

They also know the word bacon

Cooks and servers dance helpfully through this intimacy

Eggs and money exchanging places freely

Lard melts down in the kitchen

What has become of my morning?

Orange balloons half deflated blow away

Chuck Berry brought down by some jazz trumpet and piano duet

Cool as no leaves November

The orange balloons carried all that hot color away with them