Cafes

Sometimes I think real life only takes place in cafes, those reflective islands in the middle of the stream where living, we watch life go by. Could we have all our meals in cafes? Do some job there between meals— stringing beads, stuffing envelopes, writing novels? Then, when it's dark, the way the clerk in my Indian hotel put a mat on his desk for the night, we could put a mat on our table and sleep. Ah, but then a cafe would be home. Lots of people live on the sidewalk already, and most of them don't like it. Maybe what we need then is a home, and a home away from home, too.