Chamomile Tea V Coffee

Coffee Cup Coffee Foam Coffee Cup

Dusk settles like fine dust
when streetlights escort
evening into hallways.
Nightfall has attached itself
to the shoulders of ordinary people
carrying stories and news,
usually exuding on inhalation
of ritual warm kettle steam
through herbal nostrils.
Tonight is different –
his eyes still have big, black
dark circles underneath.
Just write poems for me.
Don’t tell me about your day.
She knows he’s secretly
hoping cupped china
will somehow soothe the aftershock
of his news as it wields its blows
like sledgehammers,
nailing her heart against the chipped
plaster ceiling;
its throbbing veneer draws his eyes
which bear cross-hatched shadows,
subdued and worn from penumbra tears
that fell only a few tea breaks ago.
What kind of woman is she
to make you want to do this?
It was by the coffee machine
that the sun began to fade
on all their stories
and memories; yellowing pages
turned into ghosted
fragments when shot to flames
under florescent tubes
only to dissipate with the aroma of coffee –
meanwhile, her aroma happily swirled
inside lipstick and white froth.
She sips her chamomile, redolent of betrayal –
Don’t tell me about your day.
Don’t shed the dust.

Marathon

joggers.png

Tortured torsos bend on street corners, watching
wheezes rebound off the hard pavement; clammy hands
clutch bits that shimmy while jumping on the spot,
pounding pavements – pulse rate grateful for the vital,
artificial regularity of red-amber-green:

a final gasp then it’s off past the butcher’s shop,
neck twisting as eyes promise breathless
revisions of lifestyle and philosophies especially
at the sight of still life bouncing up and down on broad
shoulders and the blue stripes of the butchers’ blood
streaked apron,

errant cars honk their horns and aim
their thumping music at the monotonous curve
of Sunday joggers’ typically holding onto wallets
nestled inside agitated pouches –

used later as sacrificial offerings held with shaking
hands once inside the coffee shop
where hot, wispy, elixirs spew and black gold
receives froth and short sharp shots of sneers
in diluted spurts, all served with krispy kremes;

a Sunday brunch to negate a one hour bone
crunching prequel to a coronary and dripping sweat
onto panting canines that impersonate
guide dogs on walks with stray masters –

attached for the ride they breathe in the vast scenery
of semi nubile joggers with tangible jerky bits
of potential inside of skinny vests, inside of the skyscraper
park that swallows up dulcet street tones before dissipating
under pollution’s fake, halcyon sky.

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