-Lunch Hour off Campus-

A few tables down and across from me
There is a man with a tattered beret;
He picks up a book while sipping some tea
And his mind drifts off from this small cafe.

My muse's oasis is a masked ball
That deviates strangers I know too well;
They ignore the deflecting words I scrawl--
To them, I am another aloof shell.

Our hidden histories can only be seen
By judging the covers of what we read;
Whoever has books while drinking caffiene
Has to be more than just "the guy in tweed".

Now the crowd moves out and goes back to work,
So my plot turns to the bearded shop clerk.