Stopped for a cup in the French Quarter

January 25, 2012

The ceiling fan above me twirls languidly, dangling…
swaying from the embossed tin ceiling from a century
ago loping shadows cut the muted fluorescence from twelve feet

The resulting flickering makes the scene into a silent movie
piped-in, ancient, scratchy, re-mastered piano jazz heightens
the noirish ease of an afternoon latte, a cloudy, dreary
day in the old part of the old town; caffeinated history
real and imagined, sip after black and white sip

Rain begins to pelt the arching, aching windows as I reach the
bottom of my cup and a dreamer, coffee drinker’s dilemma;
sit for another cup, watching the time and life brew, or
head on out into the rain with a self-promise to return

Unlike the movies, such an answer is not black and white,
simply a compromised black; a cup of French Roast – to go.
And go I do, stepping onto the cobblestoned street, right hand
warmed by the cup, left hand in my pocket, rain dribbling off
the flattened out brim of my hat, I take a steamy sip, and smile.

– Mark Lucker (Mark is a writer, employment counselor and coffee junkie!)

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