Sitting in a Cafe on a Weekday Morning

No bells signaling the start and end of a period
Just the short, guttural spurts of the espresso machine,
Etta James crooning At Last through ceiling speakers.
I watch the line of Red Hook locals,
Young women in cropped wide pants and sandals,
Men in shorts and Converse -
Finding caffeinated sustenance in this
Art Deco inspired polished space.
A voyeur, with the liberty to look around
And listen, I marvel at this mundane setting.

Wandering through my cafe archives,
I am doing chemistry homework with Sheila at a cafe
On St. Marks near Ave A,
French press and Marlboro Lights.
A place on the south side of Bedford Ave
owned by a French man who served
sake, green tea, and onigiri.
At Ozzie's on 7th Ave, meeting with a writing group -
passing around copies of poems, giving feedback.

More than just pastries and roasted coffee beans,
A good cafe is a vital organ of a block or neighborhood,
Place where people meet, rest, or write.
Throughout time, across countries, counties, cities,
We can drink the moment and savor the scones,
Swallow the memory and digest its space.