When in winter the world turns cold And every house harbors a fire of red and gold,

Then early nights make for time to spare

And chill and wind pierce though every air

Letting midday shadows hide what summer saw

So the only sound ever hear is the caw

Of lonely crows in empty fields and paths

Completely cleansed by winter’s windy wrath.

The freezing still halts nature’s cacophony,

This is the time when every person longs for another’s company

And to gather in the places warm and known

To escape the pressing dank and drear of their own home.

I prefer a place to stay and write

Where no one gives a second though if I whittle the night

Away upon a pen without ordering so much as a cup

Of coffee or tea to warm a writer up.

The place smells of fresh coffee grounds,

And green and brown coca beans lie in mounds.

The small café can gather quite a crowd

Some who sit in silence and those who shout out loud.

There are the intellects that wonder all day

There are the rich who boast and stay

Along side the debaters as if they know

Exactly which theorem has caused the row

I myself have my table at the back

Where I can observe everyone who comes by and attack,

Or praise, them as I will

With the notes I scratch upon this last week’s bill.

Our local disputant is skilled with his tongue

For outsmarting the old and confusing the young

As brilliant a man as there ever has been,

With intense blues eyes and a weak pointed chin,

He never agreed with what anyone said,

But tended to draw out an argument instead.

But he’s always as friendly as the next man is

When you give up your case to the viewpoint of his.

He loves to enthrall listeners with a tale so bold

When he outsmarted his teachers when he was six years old.

When he starts his favorite tale of all to tell,

Pay attention and please, listen up well.

For there are so many important details to hear

And if you let the debater, he could carry on a year.

So one must forgive him though the tale’s length and his yelling,

If his story changes so slightly with all of the telling.

He talks on and on about every little thing,

But his trouble is he’s never really saying anything.

His wardrobe is simple; shirt, pants and shoes,

And a long fancy jacket in light gray hues

His most stunning accessory that was there to been seen

By all that watch with interest his scene

Was a badge that was featured high on his collar

That, in red, bore the logo, “I am a scholar.”

Now with that I’m convinced, and I’m sure you are to

That no one can rival his intellect or views.

Among our number of regular patrons,

Between all the dotards and elderly matrons,

A young college student, with a light in her eyes

And her nose in a book, occasionally sighs

At the words she is reading and the places she goes.

She wears the most tattered and used looking clothes.

And when tables are full or she’s joined by a friend,

They are happy to watch her smile and bend

Off their ears with stories about far away places

And riddles with no answer and men without faces.

She’s terribly smart though she’s quiet and kind

A beautiful face and a brilliant mind.

He kindness is shown though what some say is strange,

She orders a drink with the words, “Keep the change.”

The student is thoughtful to everyone here;

Sending ‘round cards with holiday cheer

And if you look lonely or just a bit sad,

Her smiles and complements will soon turn you glad.

The rich man spends a poor man’s salary a day,

On expensive cream lattes, which he oft throws away.

The table he sits at is as large as his girth

And when someone’s embarrassed, he chortles with mirth.

He’s quite loud and unruly with a voice like a horn

And his long greasy brown beard is perfect to corn.

But he’s really quite handsome, or so he vaunts

And he’s really quite smart, so the intellects he taunts.

He tells them about his degree from Harverd,

But the scholars leave quickly without saying a word.

I guess they don’t want to be scoffed at again,

Or perhaps their discussion is outside his ken.

He owns a large business that makes plane of the air

And he is reputed to be a multi-millionaire.

When ordering drinks he counts all his change

And he leaves not a tip, which is rather strange

But perhaps if I knew him, he’s fly me for free,

For a man of his worth could not be stingy.

His clothes all are of the finest of sorts

He dresses himself like a king in the courts.

With long leather trousers and red velvet hat,

And a coat made from the fur of some wild cat.

He has on his neck a solid gold chain,

Which he always has on in sunshine or rain.

And it was a present for his conformation,

Although, they usually have a cross… unless I am much mistaken.

Everyday the people come and go,

And everyday everyone has to show

The world their talents and they play their role

For as long as my ink is as black as coal.

They each have a part, which they don’t know they play

That entertains those who watch them each day.

And at night they return to their most humble dwellings

After a day of laughing and yellings

And for the next eight hours we’re all quite the same

When no one cares much for our rank or our name

As we drift off into dreams of the world that surrounds us

And forget the whole day of humors and fuss.

In the morning the cycle repeats once again

And I’m here to capture it with my bill and my pen.