Kismet

I've taken to sitting in a little coffee/cafe spot on U Street, NW. Me and the other self-employed, wi-fi wanderers park ourselves at the few tables near electrical outlets and shamelessly don't buy much more than coffee or a nibbleable morsel in the span of up to six/eight hours.

My "m.o." is to get a Diet Coke and chocolate muffin at about hour number three. The staff doesn't seem to mind. They accomodate us right along with the paying customers. In a way, we're part of the decor, adding a certain digerati quotient that dovetails nicely with the nouveau soul soundscape, passable artwork, and an unrepentant menu that includes pig slicings, grits and chicken-n-waffles prepared by Salvadoran cooks.

Some days are just work. Other days, people drop in and break up the monotony. Last week my brother-in-law posted up for lunch. Today, an acquaintance dropped by and hipped me to the latest issue of Beltway . Lo and behold, after I finished clicking around the site, in walked E. Ethelbert Miller, whose poem I had just finished reading. Kismet. I dig kismet. Especially after a long day at the "office".