I woke up this morning and stumbled out to brunch in
The center of L.A.T.F.H. (look at this f*ing hipster)
I could have cried
They were young faces
Beautiful in their youth
Sophisticated in their city airs
And mine counted now among them
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