Saratoga Scene

Sound waves of Saratoga cafe
soothingly dance by the shores
of my sound caves,
solemnly striking the pose
of a sweet sun-drenched solitude.

Stares and glares playing a party
among these strange
eyes of everyday strangers.

A soft pink laptop hides stares
of a soft, sweet, pink-looking girl.

And the yellow-ochre lady
behind me, proudly slurping
her last drips of tartar lemonade.

The black, fluffy Angus puppy
with her ladylike, half-annoyed master
who's wearing striking red toe polish
stared at me for a good seven minutes
until I finished my cappuccino
and then fluffy Angus puppy
switched sides and closed her eyes.

Red toenails, behind her beige MacBook
browsing her smartphone and playing
with her hair, squirrelly, quick-fingered,
like a child who can't sit still.

I hesitate about her nose ring
and about the annoyingly loud motorbike
and about the happy choreography of
surrounding chattering groups.

And the singular paper man
with his tan leather briefcase,
burgundy fountain pen and silver watch,
perusing a thin bundle of paper.

Pink-looking girl speaks softly into her phone
in Cantonese — or Mandarin, or maybe English.

Suddenly I see a Lamborghini, a Pagani,
a bicycle and a half-beaten Toyota
constitute a possession of Big Basin Way.

Now, I’ve a real question:
Should I order another coffee?
I've missed the window of saying hi.

A grey-haired man emerges from a black Tesla
wearing a worn red T-shirt, tan shorts
and surprisingly rare blue Fila sneakers
along with a woman in her late blond age
and outlandishly earth-toned orange top,
begrudgingly judging the stoneware of the cafe.

If I'm not going to say hi to you
nor to the red toenails' thin nose ring -
Why should I ask for another coffee?

The cafe closes in twenty-four minutes.
People are prepping departures.

A South Asian immigrant
walks into his beamer
with two cameras dangling from his shoulders.
The lukewarm car welcomes
with A Thousand Years and it's full Sting.
Solemn Saturday solitude continues.