Idle
He sits at an outdoor table of the corner bistro adjusting his chocolate colored bow tie. He crosses his legs, the creases on his dark brown pin-striped suit standing like razor edges. The metallic mesh chair makes ugly scratching noises when he shifts in his seat. He watches the sidewalk travelers as they rush along their way, bound to the strictures of the jobs in which they toil. The rich, milk flavored chicory coffee is hot and bittersweet as he takes long, slow sips. He watches a cropped haired, brown mulatto beauty glide alone in a blue mini-skirt and towering wedged heels.He sets the fine bone china cup upon the matching saucer, settling deeper in his chair satisfied in his idle life.
The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature 