The People Watcher’s Chronicles:
The Wormhole Coffee, 1462 N. Milwaukee Ave, Chicago, IL
When swampy nectar meets my glance, I’ll squint,
so Business-Suit-Man, smothered in mocha char,
can’t hide the cubicle tethers he guards
like pagers at soccer games. He sinks.
Soon my java eyes will swerve, immerse Mis-Print-
Daughter-Of-Priests, estranged I’m sure, her shark
tattoo consumes an inky cross. At dark,
when bar-men voices her drink, she sinks.
Drip towards Drop-Out-Barista-Boy,
caffeine, one med he’ll mix for rent.
But me? I’m ghostly, just lurking, devoid,
inventive bore to three café frequents.
I’ll drown them in sins, poured in my own defense,
deny that I, we all, into some liquid, sink.