Thursday, March 29, 2012

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.