Break Time

A poem I wrote while on break one day.

Concrete stoop of my repose, 

meditation pallet rose,

how you wait for days

for the pause.

the quick-paced

racing

rest I get for my

fruit selling woes.

Great poets have visited here,

quiet thoughts,

and grinning breezes, 

optimizing the dreadful cynic.

The smokes, too have had there place

but those weren't up to me.

Under this ancient all-green tree

I wait.

for work to begin again.

for country lore,

coming out the eyes 

of wrinkled strangers.

For the clock.

regrettably

and the knock, knock

of non-absurd responsibility.

My business with flowers

calls me back

and the stoop waits 

for time to end.

and begin again.