Think Not

The lady at the table
set up inside Manchester Mall
boasted "Workshop"
for writers, and tipped
her nose in a snit that only the
elite or those full of themselves
can truly get away with...

making me feel so much like
a bum in a bistro

maybe sub-common in a place like
Cicero, Illinois, or Germantown,
Hinckley, even Odessa.

But there it was in Fresno
within walking distance
of Tower Theater, Java Cafe
and Moulton's hangout at Granny's,

that district a haven for creative
Bohemia-minded eclectics, eccentrics,
quiet like me, passion-mongers for
the spoken word. Poets. A writer
like me.

"I think not," coughs a cold stare
as she coaxes a pamphlet back
to its proper place.

What was it then, a shock
of white straw and Warhol frames,
stylized grungewear of the day.
I think not.

Think maybe, perhaps, it's possible
in spite of spite, I'm laughing inside
like some manic hyena right there in the
middle of Manchester at the thought of
being more real than the most haughty elitist
and she never had a clue.