Also sharing with Open Link Night at D'Verse. The Doors are open, the poetry is flowing, and the mike is live. So stop over, check out the wonderful poetry on display and why not share a poem you wrote while you're there.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
The Girl at the Espresso Shop
Patchouli scented airwaves, naturally
pushed their serenity upon
the blight that dyes the blood-beating
drone of rain—where elementary plucking
politely accompanied the cacophony
of drum fodder originally
fashioned for this brittle child who, somehow,
briefly stole my heart during
that summer I spent vacationing at the smallest
of the least popular Sandalwood resorts.
I forgot all about that precious child, until this afternoon,
where I saw this Artistic-flavored hippie chick, who reminded
me of that brittle girl I’d internally obsessed over, for each of the
14 nights I’d spent unplugged many, many year’s prior.
Conveniently, she sat, sipping a caramel
espresso at the tiny cafe annexed between
the herbal market and the yoga palace, which just so
happens to double as a karaoke/singles bar on
both Thursday and Friday nights.
Through opium contoured designations, I peered, as inconspicuously as possible, at the hippie girl, while she continued her torturously slow sipping, upon that beautifully delicate, bluish-white demitasse cup—and after removing her lips, in painstakingly slow regards, I could feel the serum pulsating through me then and there—all this occurring moments before I had the privilege to take notice, as to how her raspberry gloss had redecorated the fragile cup’s design.
For what seemed like hours—time seemed to linger, wafting enchantingly through the salted air—
This, of course, was nothing but an approximation, as there really wasn’t anyway I could have located the precise expenditure of time—for I haven’t wore a watch in roughly twenty years, my cell-phone’s battery had given up on me moments before I caught the first glimpse of this wonderfully exquisite sight, and the only wall clock was positioned behind me—and while I certainly, with ease I might add, could’ve turned around and examined the hour and minute hands to know for sure—the truth of the matter is that I, in supreme stalker mode fashion, never veered my gaze from this wonderfully fascinating breath of fresh light. By the end of the afternoon I fully understood ever inch of the rose painted sundress this girl wore so very well.