As it is, stands still, at this corner
of Wabash and Minsteril. There's.
nothing to do, really, nothing, A
green Starbucks - another yes -
wherein I sit. I wile my wiles
a while; or however that goes.
What the music is, they claim,
is too loud : nonetheless - the
girl sings back while calling out
ordered names. These people
purchase anything : sweet treats
and pastried drinks with foam.
'Oh, I've waited for that since
I left home.' Wanton waste,
the waistline's grown.
A family of four from Germany,
sits down right here, next to me,
at a long butcher table, a huge
slab of wood. Making haste with
their language and looking things
over; trying to see if their phones
will charge at the tapbletop fixtures,
they look at me while they drink
their mixtures. I have to shrug that
'I just do not know' - when asked
'Is this for the charge now, here?
in heavy English I liked to hear.
What they must think of Americans
through me, I wince - good gracious
Jesus, don't go by what you see; I
have no phone and am hardly me,
ignorant as a sally-mander about
both phones and charging. Just
drink your foam - sweetly, sweets,
and know that I consider this
land my Home.