Endless cars rush by the window
in flashes of silver, black, and white
and almost like clockwork
the bus stops just outside
in regular intervals
and endless people
hobble by the window
in flashes of middle, lower, and no class
and outside the addicts
try to turn the very air they breathe
into gun metal blue
puffs of cigarette smoke
and inside people read newspapers
and try to talk,
to think,
to work,
over the rough din
of coffee machines competing with
beautiful jazz trumpets and saxophones
and there's an old black man
and a slightly less old white man
they are friends, and they sit next to me
talking about money and work
and how they wonder
if Joe ever moved into his new place
and it made me wonder too
the old black man
has his eye on an old
antique Spanish coin
he's just waiting for the price to go down
and there are people
their faces obscured by the screens of their laptops
who flutter between
their work and social media
there's an energy about the place
that we all seem to share
as if we are all a part of a bigger community
even if we don't recognize it
just a rag tag group
of transient people
who don't really have
anywhere else to be