An older man and his wife ask the two
women in front of me if they're in line
for coffee; when they nod, they slide
right in as though they don't even see
me there. I don't say anything, though I
think things (like they're probably the type
who won't bus their own table, but maybe
I'm just being judgmental). It's busy
behind the counter. Chaotic even, with people
changing orders: hot not iced, soy milk not
almond, regular cold brew but no ice. One
of the baristas fumbles with a glass cup
and it cracks on the counter then shatters
on the floor amid a profusion of I'm sorrys.
A woman with a clerical collar peeking out
of her t-shirt starts to pick up the pieces
and the barista says No no I don't want you
to cut yourself. The artist who everyone
knows shuffles in from the back in a dark
blue Hawaiian shirt. There's always
a reserved table for him; and copies of
his pen and ink drawings plastic-sleeved
in binders near the roaster. Over the grand
piano that no one is playing right now, two
paper lanterns sway lightly in an unseen breeze.
Above the bar there are three more, but ruffled
like strange upside down poppies. If you look
closely, you'll see they're cunningly made
of layers of coffee filter paper.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I know this Sunday morning.
Thank you for breathing it into life here.
It is the poet who sees
Even if it is something as lonely, as lovely as the upside down crumpled petals of poppies.