Five minutes waiting for the bill

Buddha sits on a triangle in the corner, a midget floating six feet above the Java House; he serenely blesses each plate of french toast. On the wall a pair of thin women clutch fabric, dressed so pale by a great master (I've never seen such soft undulating lips). Outside a red bike rams a taxi, on purpose, and leaves a dent in the door. Emotion, how unexpected! A shouting match, fists shake and tires squeal - so catty and bitchy. (Now that's a vexatious velocipede!) Cars rule these streets, but nice try. Meanwhile passersby diligently feign oblivion. Observe the scene reluctantly and shake your head; don't get sucked into the Queen St. vacuum. Then I hear two voices, Italian, and suddenly I'm in Calabria ... where can I find real fresh fruit, delicious and good? The Colonel across the corner has a mud-covered awning; he's not ashamed of his fried chicken anymore (I remember him before he was an acronym). And Pam can't save her feathered friends; people learn for themselves, but go ahead and try to preach - in this city we listen to anything. The telephone pole's bulleted with staple-holes; word-of-mouth and underground is still the way. But how can anyone feel at home here? These kids live like animals; I can't walk a half-block without getting an assful of skateboard! But I don't say sigh, it's too sunny. We hope one day for beauties on the boulevard, but for now chewing gum catches my elbow; Mack trucks shift all through the downtown, and the natives get high and drink the moon.

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