Poetry and Coffee

Two a.m. and the street was dark. The town had shutdown. One neon light shined on the wet street. Pintu walked slowly across the deserted street to get a better look. A low murmur could be heard seeping through the large plate glass. As he opened the front door the inviting smell of coffee hit him, but the beatnik sounds were abusive to his ears. He turned back to the street and the door flew shut behind him. Leaning against a parking meter was a dirty, ragged man. He looked up and softly spoke. “Brain, Train, Insane.”