By
Lisa Morris
A Table At Starbucks
I sit at a table
accidentally listening
to the faux deep
intellectual conversation
of a nearby crowd of twentysomethings.
They are intent on a minor debate,
and the female ringleader
talks them in weary circles
with a studied wise nod
and bitter sarcasm;
this latter passes for wit.
She takes herself very seriously.
For a moment
I wonder if she has a lover;
and if she talks about existentialism in bed.
When I stand to go,
they invite me to the table,
but I know my glasses aren’t hipster enough
and besides, I’ve already had the spanking
life gives to the emphatic sure.
They are so innocent, in a way,
and I buy them a round of coffee
to fortify them against coming experience
and all the answers they will unwillingly find
in the end.
Words Too Bold To Say
He leaves me notes
in the coffee.
Today’s read:
“I love seeing your blooms
and blossoms.
I love you, Lisa.”
I blush.
I want to say,
“You are the sun;
you make me bloom-
I love your heat.”
Instead
I only smile,
and the words too bold to say
heat my unsung lines.
The poetry worlds in my head rejoice
and all the paper maidens
wake to letters from their lovers-
they dance with joy,
and whisper words
I never will.
So fine at the experiential level. Enjoyable.