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                                      The ‘Way-Cool Coffee Shop

                    Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling
                    dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun
                    was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to
                    be no colour in anything…

                                    -George Orwell, 1984

***** windows glare out onto the parking lot
Where debris is blown by the sour winter wind
While worn-out Mardi Gras decorations
Slap against old awnings and creaking poles

The get-it-yourself coffee is cold
Every pump: the purported French Roast
Vienna Nights, Istanbul Breakfast Blend
Jamaican Mountain Select, American Road

They go well with the rubbery croissant
And its greasy smear of farm-fresh spread