Melange

Here in this café,
voices float
like spheres of foam,
Each bubble, coloured, effervescent,
soon to be engulfed by another.

The threads of laughter
drown out the clinking of glasses.

Women talk,
the sound of their diphthongs
forming arcane rhythms to my ignorant ears.

At a distance in a corner,
a muted chair
doodles memories from another time.

The music, unburdened by finitude,
slips beats between the words and the scribbles.

For a fleeting second, the three seem to unite,
and then the kaleidoscope falls apart again.

The doodler drudges further,
the words split into jagged syllables,
and the music gives in to the radio jockey.