Posts Tagged ‘café’

Triple Shot.

typewriter  736Earlier today, I sat at a table at the café right down the street.  At the table next to me a mother was reading the newspaper as her daughter, I’d age her at about six, was swinging her legs, kicking her mom’s chair.  Her mom didn’t react.  The girl said, “Mommy, what is air made of?” Without looking up, the mother said, “Nitrogen and Oxygen,” and the girl stopped kicking mommy’s chair.


I worked in a tea house with a decent sound system in the center of campus in college and my favorite thing to do was early Monday morning, I’d play Carmina Burana as loud as it would go.


I wonder if this ever happens:

“Honey, does this dress make me look fat?”

“Yes.  That dress makes you look fat.”

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A friend once told me that he preferred the moon, because compared with the sun, the moon was far more noble.  He asked me if I agreed.

I told him that maybe, but I’d rather just get rich and buy distant relatives fine china for wedding presents, that I saw a set of Waterford crystal wise men that my second cousin would just die for.  All three of them, I said.

He told me about wars and genocide and the environment and shouldn’t I spend my money on that.  This was after I just ordered hot water at the café down the street from the market where, every week, I buy a whole organic local chicken for my dog.  My friend sipped his macchiato and I said that I dunno, it’s easier to get up on sunny days rather than rainy ones, much less moony one.  Had he ever been to Alaska?  They sure must have some noble winters in Alaska.

He told me he saw a documentary about how Alaskan farmed salmon is getting into the indigenous population.  That’s the word he used, indigenous.  It’s fucked up, he told me.

I said that yeah, it’s fucked up because I didn’t want to tell him that I did agree, it was more noble, that it was easier to be awake when no one else was, if for no other reason than the fact that you would be asleep when they would later be awake, that maybe there was something noble in that.  At night, no wars are declared, no races extinguished, no forests cut down, nope, not on my watch.  I wanted to tell him that it’s only when the sun comes out that everything goes to shit.  And it’s not escapism, I’d say, it is noble, but I didn’t and I just drank my hot water and instead told him how tired I suddenly got.

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It is not that it made a difference in the café or
bottle of wine or changed footstep after
bootstep crossing streets and bridges.  
It did not alter the torn jeans.  It did not
wear down
any more the rubber heels.

If anything, he saved money
on phone cards and had an extra hour
on idle Saturdays.
If anything, it changed his
sleep tonight.  The curtains not quite drawn
closed, enough to let in the street light
to reflect off his worn leather
jacket on the coatrack
and her skirt,
bunched on the floor.

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