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
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.
1 comment:
A great poem!
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