Coffee Drips

By Beverly Greene

NOTE: This poem is protected by international copyright laws and may NOT be reproduced in any form without Beverly Greene's expressed and written consent.

The newly opened coffee shop
on the corner of 6th and 6th
is busy tonight,
full of people
desperately seeking
to get another latt�
before the day ends
and the doors close,
sealing off their source
of fed addictions
to corporate mandated
sleep depravation.

We gratefully enter the warmth,
enticed by the thick aroma
of the world's best variety
of overpriced coffee beans
slow roasted,
percolated,
poured
and savored
to the last drop -
all for the atmosphere
of low florescent lighting,
cheap Ikea furniture
in modern, bold colors
and bad attempts at art
passed off as culture.

We walk up to the counter
and wait in line
behind a couple
of teenagers
with no apparent curfew
as they order
with gleeful laughter
and ringing cel phones
some special blend
of Brazilian tea,
diluted and poured
over crushed ice.

As they leave, joking
about some school "loser,"
we place our order:
a grande Colombian
and a tall mocha
and wait by the case
full of goodies
made of chocolate
and oats
for those needing
a sugar rush too
and day-old
salads and sandwiches
for those too busy
to find the time
to eat a meal
but who always have time
for coffee.

Our order ready,
we grab our cups
and make our way
through the crowd
to the back corner
where we sit
alone
at a black table
with marks and scratches
of names and initials
and nothing in particular
made by strangers
that remind us
that this is
a borrowed place.

Over stemming cups
of brand name coffee
held tightly
in winter-beaten hands,
we talk of places far away
and things dreamt of
in moments of inspiration.
We share meanings
and desires
in between
lazy stirs
that add sugar
and cream
to taste.

Elbow-propped,
you lean close
and whisper
in my ear
a truth
never before shared
with anyone
and I smile
at your confidence
in me
before folding
discarded sugar packets
into neat squares
and arranging
empty creamer containers
into a tidy pyramid
in the center
of the table.

You say my name
and I look up
from my hands' work.
Our eyes meet
but I am afraid
to stare too long,
so I search the faces
surrounding us
for signs of recognition:
I always feel
like a fugitive
sure to be discovered
at any moment
for what I am
when I'm with you.

The silver machines
hiss and howl
in response
to the latest orders,
to late orders
that will be taken
out into the cold night
and held close to the chin
for the heat they provide.
I hear you
say something beautiful
and I want to look,
to see the joy
in your eyes,
the pride
in your own revelation
but I am unable
to stand
the flush
of my face.

Instead, I notice
the round man
across the room,
seated in a too small
blue cushioned chair
that highlights
the sickly hue
of his stubbled face
above his pale yellow
working man's shirt
rather than his coolness
for being seen
in a place like this,
a place he surely
does not belong,
his day of sipping
exotic blends
while listening to abstract lyrics
with snapping fingers
and black turtlenecks
having already passed.

The man frowns into his cup,
swishing and swirling
the contents
with the angry swaying
of his thick hand,
his grip indenting
with a force
that threatens
to collapse
the thin paper
with the trendy logo.
He mouths words
unheard, surely
as ugly as he is
to the young man
with the same chin
sitting across from him
staring down
at the worn brown backpack
waiting beside his dirty Nikes.

You ask me a question
I know is profound
and I try to answer,
to formulate the words
into some coherent placement
but chancing a glance
into your eyes,
the fear
of getting lost
again
turns my thoughts
into an unknowing shrug
as I look beyond you
to the woman
sitting behind you
in the green dress
buttoned up
to the lacey collar.

With her dirty blond hair
so tightly bound
with chopsticks
in a bun
that she hardly needs
the cat rimmed glasses
to make her eyes
appear further apart,
she nods in agreement
and smiles at the man
holding her hands.
Her abandoned,
chipped,
logo-less ceramic
cup rests
on the small round table,
next to her simplistic
black handbag
sure to match
any pair
of sensible pumps.

I watch with fascination
as she tilts her head
and looks up
through thickened lashes
as she softly giggles
like a child
even though her height
doesn't require such an effort
to see the object of her attention.
I ape her stance
and peer up at you
though I don't have to
and you don't notice
that I've done
anything different.
Instead, you smile
and ask for my opinion
on some issue or another
I wish I could concentrate on.
In response, I ask you
what you think
and as you go on talking,
filling the void
my own voice has left
in our conversation,
I watch your mouth
pucker and relax,
draw and retract,
creating the sounds
of your intelligence,
regulating the rhythm
of my heartbeat.

"Sorry folks, but it's closing time.
You don't gotta go home,
but you can't stay here."
shouts the pimpled faced
coffee bean slinger
buried in a white apron
obviously intended
for adult usage.
In response, we all rise,
as if mindless zombies
under the spell
of this place,
leaving our litter where it lay,
making our reluctant way
out the swinging glass doors
and into the cold darkness.

I lean back against the damp wall
and stare into the headlights
of passing cars,
listening to the soft shhh sound
as the pass through tiny puddles
of midnight rain
as I dig inside my pocket
and pull out a pack of smokes
and the companion lighter.
I apologize sincerely
for my bad habits
before lighting the cigarette
with a quick spark
I pray won't give away
too much
of what I'm feeling
and can not say.

I slowly, deeply inhale
the cancer agents
and exhale a foggy mixture
of smoke and breath
as I try not to think
that you'll be leaving soon.
Begging you to stay
in between the lines,
I ask about weekend plans
and other such safe subjects
sure to keep you talking
while never giving away
my intentions.

You press your hand
against the wall beside me
and chatter about a concert
your buddy won tickets to
by a band you've never heard of
but that sounded like fun anyway
as the heat of your words
clouds the air around your mouth
and I wonder if your lips
would feel cold
if I could find the courage
to kiss you now.
Instead, I look away thoughtfully
as I detail my own sparse plans
for Saturday night
while I notice
the woman across the street.

Bent from the waist,
left foot daintily propped
up on the side of its toes,
leg pushed forward
for a better inspection,
she struggles to conceal
a run in her stockings
by pulling and tugging,
stretching and bunching,
all the while pressing
her burgundy leather attach� case
against her chest
with a tiny elbow.
Her expensive red business suit
and high priced high heels
seem to do nothing
to calm her worry
of what people might think
of a woman with a hole
in her pantyhose.
With an apparent imperfection
in her packaged femininity,
she stands
and hurriedly walks away
in the direction
of the open-late drugstore
just a block away.

As the woman walks
around the corner
out of sight,
you tell me about a trip
you have planned for the summer,
a cottage you're going to rent
that rests on a serene lake
where you're sure
to be inspired to write magic
under the twinkling stars
invisible to the city dweller's eyes
and I watch your hands
flowing through the words,
motioning the thoughts,
your silver thumb ring
flashing under the gray glow
of the street light.

Watching you button up
your blue fleece-lined
denim jacket,
I mutter something
about how great that sounds
and you nod in response
before stepping out
onto the crosswalk.

We walk silently,
side by side
through the damp night
until we reach your car
in a half empty parking lot
and you ask me for the time.
It's a quarter past midnight
and not enough,
but I only report the numbers,
stealing a glance at myself
in the reflecting image
on your window,
checking for the proof
of my own feminine imperfections
sure to show up
even in this dingy light.

You turn the silver key
in the door
and pull it open
with a rusty creak
as you tell me
that it's time you had to go:
work gets you up early.
I say "okay"
as our eyes meet
and for a moment,
I allow myself
to float in the sea
I find there.
I swim in your mystery
and wonder if you notice
the redness of my checks
before breaking off my stare
and wishing a goodnight
and a safe drive
to the hood of your car.

You climb in
and start the frozen engine
with a pitiful sputter
that sends black smoke
puffing from the tailpipe
before waving goodbye
and closing the door.

I turn and walk towards home,
step by step, I watch
my feet take me closer,
further away from you
and I listen to the distinct rumbling
of your long ago shot muffler
as you pull away from the curb
and drive off
in the opposite direction.

I pull my coat tight
around my throat
before shoving
my chapped hands
into my jean pockets.
I lean forward,
pushing against
the chilly breeze
funneled through the alley
by the buildings
towering around me
and I resolve
to never see you again.

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� 2001 Beverly Greene owns all rights to this original poem.

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