Prose piece -The cafe- Robert Fullarton 2014

Prose piece -The cafe-2014


Walking down the streets in the rain trodden ways of a dream.
A man in a cafe stares into the empty cylindrical glassy eyed waste of his worry.
Men and women sit in the sore presence of silence.
 She does not love him but stares out through the open cafe doors, the moon is wide, silver and enormous, like the gulf between him and her, time and space, today and yesterday.
Blue twilight fades and dimly twitches as the day yawns for rest into the night.
Alcohol  is knocked back like fire to madmen or the fire from madmen as they clamber and clamour the streets with noise by the side-streets. Fire lit luminosity reaches out from building to building as the night becomes alive in a falsetto pitch made by man when the sun descends.
Alcohol makes noise, mere noise from men that are afraid of truly speaking in their ordinary senses,
who forge fake courage from the bowels of their fear.  The cafe writers are so silent, you could almost mistake them for being part of the furniture itself.
My heart skips a beat, I stare into her eyes and write down the worthy words on paper....
The busker dances in desperation for the amusers to throw their coins, but he dances and he dances as the tempo lifts into a frantic staccato, he wares himself out, his legs give way, the music stops and he sighs into the firmaments with frustration in his heavy heart.

DO YOU LOVE ME?

 She glances with her hypnotic emerald gazes, stops and reads the message
and causally she writes....NO!

All the cafe goers depart one by one
going out into the night
as the dreams of yesterday go to bed
and the young idealists
throw off their ideals like suede coats
but dreams are not forever lost
its only love that often dwells
in the one and never in the other
twain and not together
........