It's Still Life

Random Observations at the Brea Café

There’s an air of atheism about a plastic flower,
no matter where it is. It just seems wrong. I’m
in a café that smells of stale chicken soup, and

the waitress, whose name is Beryl according
to her name tag, is astonishingly slow, but
I’m not the sort to complain, except within

my own internal dialogue. So I’m stoney-stoic
and smile when she brings my coffee (white
with no sugar) and a slice of lemon drizzle cake.

There’s a weary looking man with a thin hooked
nose seated in the corner. He’s whistling. No tune –
just three notes. The same three notes over and
over, like a squeaky door, 3 notes without end.

As he whistles, a woman in a pale blue blouse
sits at the next table. She eyes, then removes
the pink plastic flower and white stone vase from
the centre of the table, and sets it on the floor.

Out of sight, out of mind, but no matter where
it is, a plastic flower is always out of place.

Words: 208, Reading time 1-minute. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2023.