3537. DOUBLE ROOMY

DOUBLE-ROOMY

(Small World Cafe, Witherspoon St., Princeton)

You have wired me for small change : the intrepid adventurer

always. Yes, I guess I can send you money for shoes; yet,

right here where I live, I am sensitive even to the coffee people,

as I pay, watching to see what I give  -  god-forsaken tip bucket

always gaping. It's difficult, and when I do it seems the wrong

people are watching. I cannot shake those heebie-jeebies when

all I want is a java-joe. What can you send me then, for that?

So many names, so many positions and sizes for coffee; like

some weird sex game of nomenclatural twist, and I didn't even

want to play, double-roomy Joe, or Jane, let's say.

-

Outside, along Witherspoon Street, the dark side of nighttime

is leaving as I wrestle with a curb : cars passing within their

own headlights, garbage trucks and food loaders, splattered

like sauce on a bib. Oh everywhere the day is opening up;

all that voracious sound and fury. Along with me, the morning

people do their drudgery  -  waltzing in like lolly-gags and

wise old metronomes, keeping time to their times, talking

the words they might have used already. I just don't know.

-

The guy with the Washington Post again, the New Holland

broker now holding his pen, the lady with the retired 
father-husband, the guy with the smiling eyes, and
 - over there - that one reading his Bible once more; 
or perhaps the story changes each new time

or what is religion for?

-

Salvation steps in and orders again : the Chemistry guy,

savoring his little espresso, with those so-expressive eyes

I know he's ready to go when he leaves. I too mentally

genuflect at each new groove. My Excalibur is pointed to

the hundreds more to come : the morning line, the brighter

time, the ringing sound of traffic, everywhere, waking up

again to kids and all those ladies back in line.