Cafe

Sitting in a cafe on a cliff

Overlooking the Arabian Sea,

Waves arrive,

Barrel and arrive again,

And an offshore wind strums

The palm fronds,

While a hippie flutters

Through guitar strings

Singing his spontaneity.

A fat, sleeping dog

Dreams of freedom

Beneath the table,

Limbs spasming,

Little yelps and joyful snorts

Heralding a youthful memory.

My love

Sits beside me

Lost in a book

And the hippie’s sweet voice

Just as I am lost

In the words of this Malabar place

That seem to come

As much from the palms’ rustling

And the waves breaking

As the instrument plucked

And the bitter coffee

Aromatic on my tongue.

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