Writing poems in the bar in the afternoon
doesn’t make me a cliche (well, maybe it does).
But it does make me hate this city a little less,
summoning words in the quiet
before the drinkers arrive and music
from former decades distracts.
Oh yes. The door shut against
the phonewalkers and loudtalkers,
the ever-presence of people and cars
and constant droning citynoise.
Here some of those jagged edges
are rubbed smoother,
some of that god-damned citygrit
is flicked off. And fucked off.
The tin ceiling reflects weak mid-winter sun
across red brick walls and dark wooden booths,
dissolves into corners that brooms pretend not to know.
Boots and sneakers scrape over scarred wood floors
(the planks tell their stories when pressed).
The coffee has its own story. But no bitterness here,
just a nutty warmth that smells more familiar than home.
It moves inside my mouth, leaving traces
of its sweet strong narrative on my tongue.