The Only Things That Die At Starbucks Are Inevitabilities.
“Excellent. Thank you.” - My hasty
gratitude sliced through my tongue.
“Excellent. Thank you.,” She mirrored,
with veiled mockery.
“Been on this earth for twenty three years,
and that’s the best I can do.”, I impulsively
announced - struggling through the silence
of Jim Morrison and muted mumbles
in the café. My voice was searching,
like a stray, blind bird,
to nest in someone’s ears.
I plunked into my chair.
My cup grazed the glazed wood,
and hushed to a perfect pose.
The white bellowing in through the windows
surged through like a wall of frigid wind.
It was imprisoned by the dam of depth,
where golden ceiling lights poured graphed
arcs down pine walls.
A jungle of empty utterances mingled
with the breeze of music to sound a unified silence.
The servers’ steps were patterned in an infinite loop.
Stragglers would tumble through the door
to be swathed in eternal stillness.
The air, stained with the dirt smell of coffee,
soaked ever deeper into the fabric;
never spilling beyond it’s net.
The whole café was solidified as immortal.
The only things that die at Starbucks are inevitabilities.
Copyright © William Mcintosh Mcintosh | Year Posted 2007
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