The Coffee Chronicles - Part 2

I'm sitting outside, at a wet table

My skirt is absorbing the rainwater on the wet chair

I'm drinking hot, bitter coffee, while listening to a folk-singer

She's strumming her guitar and singing corny lyrics, of her own composition
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She's very self-confident, I think

Though few people at the little street festival are listening to her

I wouldn't be listening, if I could avoid it, but I can't

Unless I give up and go home, which I don't want to do
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I feel alive here, at the sidewalk cafe

Watching people walk by, even though no one sees me

I am invisible, which is fine - I don't want people to look at me

To look is to judge, and I don't like to be judged
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But I do like to be invisible

I can look, without being looked at

I am looking now at a young man in a t-shirt and shorts

He is muscular, with a hairy chest and dark eyes

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I wish he would stay nearby, so I could continue to look

I want to commit his firm, sexy body to memory

to be drawn upon later, when I'm lying alone in bed

needing some imaginary company

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Apparently, that is too much to ask; he has moved on

Now my coffee has grown cool, and the music has stopped

There's nothing else to do here, so I'll go home

And be invisible, all by myself