It was a normal day-
I went for a coffee at the Jazz Café.

And out through the soaked windows
I saw a malign, wanton city
Vehicles perishing the streets
Pouring their sooty fumes into the
Gaping mouth of the crowds.

I took a sip of the cappuccino-
The sweet bitterness;
Casted me back to those long
Winter months (wasted) -
I spent mourning about you.

I would shroud my room in black
Drink, drink, drink until-
All hues of blue
Would drown me in the Ocean of Woe.

Then Chet Baker mellowed the room:
'Some blues are sad, but some are glad, dark and sad.'

I felt as if I was suffocating.
There was something eerie about that jazz.

So I walked out-  of the light.
Let the rain rinse my sins, dance
Like a flapper: complacent, rebellious, dangerous,

puff away my eclipsed universe.
My blues were more than a cold colour:

'They're a moan of pain, a taste of strife and a sad refrain.'

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint Parisian cafe.
I only have to think about carrying coffees
and baguettes
and they pay me for it.
It's the cheapest therapy I've had.

I've come to know some of the regulars.
Some days I wish
to tell them I love them
and I don't quite know why.
I suspect they remind me
in some part of myself,
or how I wish to be.

An almost elderly lady
always comes alone.
Her hair still retains some of her blonde youth.
She orders two very weak flat whites
and sits for hours,
writing letters to distant loves
and reads the paper.
I clear her cup
and she smiles
with both her lips and her eyes.
She makes you feel like your job
means something more than it probably does.
I bring her a second coffee,
a very weak flat white.

In the afternoons
a couple comes in for coffee.
She is quiet,
the artistic type,
and wears their son in a sling.
A sweet little thing with cherubic cheeks.
The father is a darling man
with a softness many men resist.
I watch the way his eyes sparkle
when he tells me of his sons milestones.
I make an effort to see them smile,
bring them water on hot days
or just talk.
But sometimes I leave them be,
watch them from a far,
and let myself be swept up in their love,
before they leave.

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint French cafe
with dark timber floors
and French antiques.
I haven't quite mastered the art of conversation
but I'm adept in the science of smiling
and that's enough to get me by
for now.

This time last year, it was cloudy as today.
But I was about to meet you at Vigilante.

It was not raining, I wore my favorite blouse and my hear was beating so fast.

We took the porch seats, we talked as I got lost in your hazel green eyes.
Yeah we should go to the aquarium you said.

I had matcha and you had latte, you and your orioles cap.

We talked about the future  the presence and the past.

Now we are part of each other's past. You called me a romantic and
yes I am. That's why I'm writing again here.

In April we will go the the ball game and celebrate your birthday.

But when can I show you this poem, in a month or a year?

not many people favor
the flavor
of the green tea latte
sweet from the start
with a slight bitter aftertaste
as the matcha on your tongue fades

i remember the time
we went to your favorite cafe
and you commented on how your
green tea latte
was a little sweeter than the usual
and now i comment how
it is a little more bitter
compared to when i had it with you

the green tea latte
is my memory of you
sweet—for every time
we sat in that same spot
sipping the warm green drink
and bitter— for the moment
i drank my
green tea latte
alone

two men who i used
to know but who i
never knew knew each
other were sitting at
a window table as the
sky lightened to barely gray

both making a yearly pilgrimage
to the mountaintop stomping
grounds of when they were young
when they believed in revolutions

two ships momentarily run
a coffee ground on cold
october air and a well
buttered chance to catch up

"there's no replacement for family"
said the tall and pompous
actor with the demeanor of
a shark in a hawaiian shirt

"you can say that again"
replied the wiry bible
toting snowbird who used to
scramble around on roofs

somewhere through the
seven a.m. haze over my
conscious and the
florescent lampposts
the toaster popped up
two sesame bagels

("yes there is"
i wanted to sc
ream "maybe
nobody's fou
nd it yet but t
here has got t
o be some kind
of substitute to
people who w
ill only cause
you pain for
your entire l
ife longer th
an anyone e
lse you'll e
ver know")

let the doorbell
hurried goodbyes
of two rekindled
acquaintances
passing in the
morning fog
bring me back
to life

(nothing's real anyway
surrounded by how
alone i really am in this
big world small cafe)

let the rising smell
of espresso and the
bubbly hiss of 140
degree steamed milk
wake me up to something
i still can't put into words

A well-rehearsed dance,
the waltzing waitress tosses The Times
on table 1 as if she’ll actually finish
the Sunday crossword this morning.
She won’t.

Grease lined lights flicker on one
by one.
Like spotlights on a stage.
It’s show time.

Twostepping while taking down chairs,
she flows to the rhythm of ritual,
across a worn checkered dancefloor.
No applause.

In a dining room of Astaire’s and Rogers
she is the coffee choreographer.  
Pirouetting to the ***,
then a sidestep, quick! Quick!
Slow.

Warming up now, she stretches.
Switching on the metal machinery.
It grinds and growls as if it prefers
decaf.

Rings from rusted bells
hanging from the door chime
to the beat. This is her
cue.

She
   People-watches
     Lipstick-blotches
       Kissing her coffee cup
   Daydream-drinker
     Over-thinker
       Brewing in her mind.
   Bold-with cream
     Cool-with steam
       Latte lifting up
   Always stirring
     Wond'ring, worry'ing
       Of love she left behind.
|b.g.|