my own corner of the world

It is my own little corner of the world. Her red wooden floors, smudged chalkboard menus and hanging paper lamps escape me as I peer out of my window in the corner of the tiny Annapolis coffee shop. The smell of coffee, pastries and old books lofts though the air as does the crescendo of the brass section playing jazz on the radio in the back of the store. I look out my window past the water canal known as "ego ally" where many so presumptuously parade their boats. I look beyond the outlying harbors filled with the noise of wind whistling through their rigging as if the sirens were enchantingly singing to come sail their waters and ride upon their waves.

It is muggy, sweat beads upon my forehead as I sip my hot cup of coffee. Tourists walk by and stare- first at my motorcycle outside the window, then at me, lowering their gaze to my tattooed arms. They look away. Soon they will scamper off talking about shoes the price of gas and their plans for next labor day. Here I will remain in my tiny, nautical hometown, sipping my overpriced, watered down coffee, thumbing through a worn copy of my paperback sitting contentedly in my own little corner of the world. Blessings.