The Leaves are Beginning to Fall

The leaves are beginning to fall and there’s a feeling in his chest that reminds him of happiness.

There’s a slight chill in the cafe he waits in. His foot taps a little too fast to the music playing through the speakers – white rubber earbuds sit loosely in his ears. People trail past the brick wall he faces – tall, tall, short, couple, child, dog – only the dog has its nose pointed away from the ground, sniffing the air as if looking for a long-lost scent.

If he squints at the stickers plastered over the street posts, he can just make out block letters: UNDERGROUND THEATER COMPANY PRESENTS; HAVE YOU SEEN; LOST SINCE; JOIN US AND BECOME A POET; he wonders how many people found poetry on the side of street posts. There’s a society of people who read the posters on the street poles, and they speak in cutout snippets hidden around the city.

– the screech of loud music from a passing car startles, then fades.

His coffee has lattice brown stains along its rim; it’s hypnotising. He wonders which pathway it would trickle down if he poured it onto the grains in the wooden table. It drips off the edge and he watches for a minute before reaching for a napkin to catch the brown that blossoms onto the paper.

Across the road a cyclist blurs past, on his way to somewhere he was meant to be 10 minutes ago. The chill sneaks its way through the cracks in the door.

The leaves are beginning to fall; he wonders why more people don’t find poetry in the way they line the pavement, brown edges curled up, facing the dimming sky. If you look closely enough, there are lattice brown veins traced across each leaf.

He drains his cup and, shouldering his backpack, slips out the door.