Outside the glass wall,
snow falls as salt --
from a sky shaker.
Inside, satirical artwork
plasters the facing
brick wall. It’s late
morning; musicians
drag in. Baristas
have stopped hissing
and fussing. Empty
mugs sit, foam drying
on wobbly tables,
creased muffin wraps
hint at cranberry. Blog
sites glow as patrons –
one toe in the ‘hood –
text with internet buds.
The morning paper, tossed
from sticky hands to
crumb-skewed chairs
screams a local headline --
now old news to all.
Couch slipcovers crawl
toward the floor. The
lighting is poor.
Why do we stay?
Clapton is wailing:
“Well if I’ve done somebody wrong,
Lord, have mercy if you please.”
