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He occupied,
the empty chair —
in a corner
at a coffee shop.
He watched and sipped,
savoring their
blended packaged limbs,
breathing in
the earthly aroma
of their uniformed grande dreams.
He listened
to their percolated tales in the air,
he was fascinated
by this menu of people
living their ticking lives unaware.

He occupied,
the empty chair —
in a corner
at a coffee shop.
He watched and sipped,
tasting with great care
the different flavored stories they bared:
“Divorce? Who?”
“Did you hear the rumors of a coup?”
“What of love and lust?”
“Goodness! There was a drug bust?”
He marveled
at the myriad of questions they shared:
“Waffle or sandwich?”
“Is she a saint or a bitch?”
“Abortion or life?”
“Sex or brains for a wife?”

He occupied,
the empty chair —
in a corner
at a coffee shop.
He watched and sipped,
taking in
leftover wastes
on used plates,
discarded drinks —
existence gone in a blink.
Cleaned with a wipe,
the now silent tables
stood without life.
And he decided
he did not want
to be a minute crumb;
he refused
to be bland and numb.

So he lived
and left
that empty chair —
in the corner
at a coffee shop,
dusting off woes
and haunting echoes
of other words
and other lives.

working-in-a-coffee-shop

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