The Coffee Culture

I gather on the corner by the fountain for a Café Americano sunrise.

The sun yawns wide, aroused by the aroma of the espresso bean, and opens its eyes.

I reflect upon cafe’ promises of somewhere I would like to be,

with that cup of coffee: Do you remember? You said you would buy, for me.

As the dawn grows conscious, I drink it up like Café Latté at cockcrow.

I greet the morning slowly as the player plays Capriccio.

We are there together in a sentient dream of fancy,

you composing in your notebook and I upon my laptop, art literary.

Day awakens to contemplate philosophy, the human condition and coffee shop theories

of politics governing life and death, homeland economics and overseas,

thinking on the mental state while mindful of passions art,

sitting in the expanse of the macrocosm waiting for the clock to start.

Consider the spiders weaving their webs high on caffeine and out of proportion.

Caramel Macchiato, White Mocha and Chantico excite the senses beyond the distortion.

I could go to that somewhere place alone to compose and to think,

where once we were to meet, Bold Yukon, one black, one blond and sweet to drink,

but to do so would be the loss of inspiration, so from somewhere I will stay away,

until in caprice my fantasy of together entwines our words and combines our day.

The air beats lively in the afternoon as sunlight fades to moonrise.

As evening falls, with pen in hand I dream of Cappuccino skies

and a cafe’ somewhere, and you are there with me

fulfilling the coffee shop promise of a moment that may never be.


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