Cafe contemplations

a newbury street cafe

i drink my hot latte

and deliberately eavesdrop on

the scattered conversations

that compete for a place,

andean music fills the air

in a most incongruent way,

songs of indigenous people,

beautiful and melodic serve

as white noise for the crowd,

a sacred cultural form relegated

to the unnoticed and ignored,

how chic and hip this place,

they play third world flutes

to the chatter of intellectuals

who compare rimbaud with robaire

and gaugain with picasso,

critical analysis of worthy themes,

where shall we go to study abroad

italy, spain, or france,

and discussions about last night’s

terrific performance piece with

only a body and a tea cup to

express the sublime of life,

the surrealism is that i sit

among these people in

the ridiculous disguise of an

accomodated indigenous woman,

here everyone sits disconnected

from the homeless man just

outside lying in a stupor on the street,

the u.s. in the middle east

tempting the wrath of armagedon,

and the 19 year old who sentenced

himself to death by resisting the cops,

i welcome the soulfoulness of the

south american guitars that move

passionately to interrupt my thoughts,

now i can only feel the heart of

the indigenous spirit that created

the love which romances the air,

and while others busily chatter away,

i begin to remember who i am and

from where i have come, in spanish.