Dreaming at the Comet Cafe

By Shane Robitaille

Let’s go back to the Comet Cafe, the one we used to go to all the time. We can order a cup of Joe, nothing special, and see who is there.

We can see if that fiery poet is still there, scribbling her wild dreams on napkins, and setting the place ablaze with her hard talk. I would ask her if she ever fell out of love with words and their cheap promises.

I would see if that punk rock kid was still there, drawing on the back of his jean jacket and strumming that beat-up electric guitar that he never plugged in. I would ask him if he was still in love with Debby Harry, if he cried when Joe Strummer left us, and if he still believed that a kick-ass song could wake up the zombies and change the world.

I’d like to see that old man again, too. Remember him? The one who used to tell all those stories about when he was a young soldier, how terrible war was, how it’s never the right thing to do, and how war changed people. I don’t think I ever thanked him. I would like to give him a hug.

Oh, I know they aren’t there anymore. They moved on a long time ago just like the rest of us did.

But maybe we should go back anyway and pick up where we left off…when we thought we could change this sad and bland world, before we fell out of love with words, before the zombies stole our dreams, before we became numb to war, and before time had its way with us.

Before it’s too late.