If You’re So Smart, Why Ain’t You Rich

A splurge to sit at a table outside of a cafe and have a cup of good coffee. A common sparrow, showing no fear, lands on the black mesh metal table, scurries across to an inch from my cup, drops down to my knee, takes a quick look about and drops again to the brick below, scouting for crumbs. Early morning and even the buses going by seem quieter than they will later.

Jill, a plain shapeless woman, homeless, shuffles by, her eyes searching for the longer butts of cigarettes that have now become scarce due to expense and the unpopularity of the habit. She has left her belongings in a black plastic bag under a bush at the far end of the lake.

The sparrow flits up to land on the black metal mesh chair near me, it’s plumage almost a painted calico of russet, a cream off white and rich brown. It’s pleasantly cool, the joggers and walkers look happy.

Frank, the obese man that drags a large blue and white wheeled cooler with his bedding lashed on top is standing at the crosswalk, waiting for the light. Throughout the day he can be seen sleeping on benches or sprawled out, face down on his sleeping bag on the grass. If he’s sitting, he’s eating or smoking. I get the feeling he’s harmless, though large.

A woman walks energetically by, she’s shaped like a pillow that has had straps strategically bound around it. Her clothing is new, colorful and her arms, hands and legs describe an interesting effort of exercise all her own. She’s not unattractive.

A group of older men sit nearby discussing the world’s problems, grousing. One is obvious, the others mundane.

Frank wears the same dirty, dark gray t-shirt every day. He keeps to himself.

A sparrow lights on the armrest of my chair, the patterned fibers of his feathers detailed, intricate. I notice the grey of his crest. He cheeps and I mimic with whistle. This repeats several times until he cheeps a sound I can’t mimic, there is a whir to it. He sits for the longest time, watching me with his dark, blinking eye, shiny black beak. He squats on his anisodactyl feet, three sharp nails forward, one back. He seems comfortable with me so close. I extend my index finger in hope he will perch on it so I may feel his light presence and crisp, firm little grip. He sits for the longest time, observing, ignoring me before he flits again to the ground.

Wealth can be measured wrongly. A cup of coffee, drip, is a splurge. If you’re so smart why ain’t you rich?