espresso diaries: 2.7.02
eastern music/strawberry croissant/
the sunniest day in months
choking down half a pack of cigarettes
to fill the ashtray on the windowsill.
it's a game:
muted conversations,
people hurrying along the crosswalk downstairs,
outside.
wearing coats that lie about how warm it is today.
in here i'm safe from the traffic
but not from floods of poetry:
heavy, hurting words
that refuse to stand still.
crumbs, pachouli
things i revere with all of my senses
i fold little paper cranes to stir my thoughts
i watch the world outside & become
~invisible.~
(i think twice before i pan the room)
a john cusak sits in the corner
& a hemmingway lives in my hands.
i curb my smoking long enough to finish
another crane.
this is a healing place.
~no place like home~
fairy tales.
next tale.
