This body sits alone in silent recall,
the voices, the activity, the monstrous sound
of espresso being ground,
for the hurried and swaggered consumer.
They are all bound
for some adventure, perhaps a honey-do
bending forward, and falling backward,
their tastes are measured by those around,
and one solo black coffee
seems far less profound.
I will take it though,
and find my corner nearby,
to locate the faces and the expressions
of the many lives
will occupy this favorite bistro’s lines.
Rally faith upon the barista,
who holds a smile today,
might groan later in the backroom,
yet the power they surfeit,
they haven’t really a clue,
until one day,
in the back corner,
they might see whose actions
are delightfully true.
Today they are certainly coffee shop blues,
where tomorrow’s energy convey fresh clues.