Sometimes he thinks of his father
when he makes his way
between the bed
and the stiff pink sofa
at Starbucks.
Without sighing too much,
as long as Helen is there
in her green apron
to take his order,
he can get on his hands and knees,
if he has to,
and try another day.
His father made Greek coffee
with quiet reverence,
stirring the small copper pot
over a slow flame,
the coffee foam rising
to a boil, then subsiding
to stillness.
He drank it bald and shinny.
His plump pinky delicately extended.
The boy learned reverence and patience
at the kitchen table
in coffee scented air.
Starbucks is
a noisy train station,
pistons hiss and clang.
She fidgets with the foam machine
wreathed in steam.
Her spoon is too short.
She scoops the last drop of foam
from a stainless cylinder unadorned,
no javelin throwers or nymphs on
its sleek body,
to dollop a billowy cloud
atop a latté.
Now that's pretty.
Worth the racket.
He knows her name from her pin.
Every morning she asks,"Here or to go?"
She never remembers him.
Later, walking to an empty apartment
billowy clouds fill
the empty blue sky
but the day's hard light
does not relent
until the day exhales
one last breeze
subsides to stillness
and gathers to begin
one more time.
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