Notes From Non-Corporate Coffee

A copy of Jim Harrison’s The Women Lit by Fireflies found in the cafe library. I borrow it for a friend.

I stash my books in the library’s handcrafted book case built by a deceased patron. My books rest between Danielle Steele and Clive Cussler.

Another white cup, but no logo. I taste the difference.

Stevie Ray Vaughn plays.

No new products advertised.

People are conversing. Someone in here is thinking of a good idea that might improve the world, I can just feel it. I can almost smell it.

Across the street, decades ago, I began my life as a writer. It began in an old brick building paid for by a Robber Baron. No one is ever going to write that about the new digital Robber Barons. They are ten times more heinous than Mellon, Carnegie and Rockefeller and wear fitted t-shirts wile doing the robbing.

I smell baked goods.

A woman with purple hair meets a man with gray hair.

People are talking about the sun.

A huge man comes in wearing yellow suspenders to hold up his gut.

Do I write differently while drinking coffee in a corporate atmosphere? Someone should conduct a study.

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