Sunday mornings

It can get packed in the cafe, sometimes. Standing room only. There is some kind of pressure generated that some thrive on; I pull down the brim of my hat, lean into the cafe like facing a strong wind and get quiet as I weave my way towards the coffee pumppot. After adding milk and sugar, a quick stir, good mornings said, the pressure pushes me back out, for a needed break. I like people, need people,in thruth; yet unlike my vices, small amounts is all I can take. If People were a drug, then invariably a tolerance gets built and more is needed for the same effect. Looking back on my social history, that has been the way socializing worked. I may die from an overdose. I am staying away from parties held in stadiums.
If there is an overflow at the cafe, chances are it is a Sunday. Hopefully it is summer and the scene spills out into the street. Otherwise, I face the elements with only my bones and cigarettes to keep me warm. I smoke furiously. The chairs are cold and whisper promises of comfort if only I would sit in this one or the other so that they get relief from the chill. The meager roof chinsels out a bare strip of protection from the rain. Buddy, the oldman cafe dog, is huddled next to the building, snug as a nail in wood. I wish for a warm fur coat like his. Sometimes he comes over to get his ears ironed, they do get wrinkled at night. He puts his head between my legs and I cover my knees with his ears and smooth them out, enjoying the palm size patches of warmth. I tell him he has no pockets and he gets angry; more blood rushes to his ears. At least my knees are in the tropics. I wish I could make myself small and crawl into his ear, covering myself with those baby blanket flaps. But then I would smell like dog earwax.
Writing like this, making stuff up is a lot like dreaming. Last night I dreamt I could drive my little truck right into the grocery store, parking near the checkout stand. That was convenient and brilliant! Except then the way out got filled with grocery carts and stuff and I couldn't get my truck back out. It turned into a nightmare as I tried to drive out the side entrance and stairs appeared where there were none before, aisles shrunk, corners where there were straightways and the checkout clerk that was helping me got involved in a major remodeling project, complete with concrete busting tools. He hurt his head, blood flowing and me totallly aghast and beside myself. I was just about tearing my hair out, which is cool, as I don't have hair. That dream somewhat resolved itself when a way out appeared after I protested loudly.
With all that trouble, in the next dream somebody stole my moneyfat wallet but gave it back to me right away. Thank you, Dreamgod. I learned my lesson and will resolve to leave my wallet at home before I travel to dreamland and park my truck in the parking lot like everybody else.