The writing hour

Like a scene from Kerouac 4 strangers sit at a table Now five Surrounded by stories across time. The aroma of coffee brewing in the cafe next door Wafting in The harsh bitterness warm and comforting People looking up and smiling All with pen and paper Deep in thought I wonder what they have to say A shared hour with strangers the most I've seen all week It reminds me of when I did exams Looking up seeing fellow students scribbling away I'm wondering what they have to say. Have you noticed, a lady looks up our eyes meet You can see the smile in her eyes And like a meditative flash Ideas coming rushing past. The bookshop not yet warm Which encourages you to stay Sat here with complete strangers Drinking out of melamine mugs Reminding me of Sundays sat with my grandma. Where did that thought come from, I hope it will stay. I'd look forward to a Sunday, We'd play in the garden And stay for tea. Drink tea out of melamine mugs I miss those Sundays. Mandy would like it here Though still cold Sitting in a bookshop Watching the world go bye. How many bookshops have we been I wonder, How many more till the day I die. What was the last book we bought? What was the l