exclusion, self imposed

so i'm standing outside the coffee shop
staring through the large plate glass windows.
it's one of those intimate, quirky little places.
pressed tin ceiling, art (originals) on the walls, pieces of
furniture that look more like they belong in a bedroom
than any public place. maybe that's my problem.
maybe it isn't impersonal enough. because i can't
seem to get my feet to move over the threshold.
i'm just standing here on the street, staring through
to the other side. on the other side sit the group of
poets i am supposed to be joining. they talk easily
with each other, they share their works. i'm wondering
at this point, what sort of poets they are, these smiling,
laughing easy talking people. these are definitely not my type of poets.
i'm wondering what kind of poetry these easy talkers have inside themselves.
what could they possibly have to say? probably poems about flowers and
butterflies and trees and stuff. this is not the group for me.

i turn and walk on down the street.
a dirty, crumpled sheet of newspaper bounces along the sidewalk in front me.


--bruised orange