A man walks out of the coffee shop from which I am sitting down-wind. His perfume is vulgar-sweet and un-natural, and smells like the shopping mall across the street. He stalls at the patio table next to mine and fumbles in his pockets. What's this? The scraping sound of a match being lit, then the odor of its sulfur. It battles and begins to nullify the department store stench, when soon, the acrid smoke of the man's cigarette hits my snout. This is bliss! He walks twenty feet down the sidewalk, finishes the cigarette, jumps into his red and black Smart Car, and drives off. I plunge into my bold cup of coffee.
With music
I'm trapped!
Like a worker bee
in rhythms,
in patterns.
If you find yourself at the coffee shop at seven in the morning, you are received with the sun on your back, keeping you warm in the cool breeze.
You may also find that you can't get a word in with Miller because every printed sentence of his makes you think he wrote it for you, and you think why, and by the time you're done you may find yourself with eyes glazed over, staring somewhere between the page and the street twenty feet away.
A passing gentleman says, "morning" to you, as if he knew you were lost in your memories, and you snap back into the present, observing the worker bees, rushing in and out of the coffee shop.
I will acquire a synthesizer.
At a coffee shop
a conscientious
smoker discusses
the etiquette of
smoking.
Then, after a final
drag, she throws
the butt into the
sidewalk's gutter.
Just me and my tea.
I don't even like tea.
I like coffee.
Finally Punk
