Coffeeshop Morning

COFFEEHOUSE HAIKU

Morning Starbucks fills
with noise and sweet steam - rain beats
against the windows.

Wind in umbrellas
shifting direction, lifting
litter at the curb.

Umbrellas balloon
outside in the street - oh look!
the skirt hems flashing!

Stomp, stomp. Come in
from the rain, dripping stories
of where you came from.

Long before daybreak
while Issaquah sleeps soundly
something is brewing.

Issaquah at dawn
stirs from a blanket of fog -
drinks its coffee black.

The congregation
assembles at the brown door
queuing for caffeine.

Starbucks regulars
line up along the counter -
whoosh! We are awake!

Newspapers scattered
over coffeehouse tables -
dark freshly brewed words.

Guitars weave a song
of many voices - mocha,
cinnamon and clove.

A guitar echoes
in the rafters. Baristas
dance in clouds of steam.

CNN, volume off, unrolls
its ticker on the lower
margin, falling dice .

It is a slash of shadow,
an insistence, a scream
wedged behind a chair.

He is here again
sitting at his same table
by the blank window.

Game pieces on checkered pine,
black laptops unfold
beside tall creamy lattes.

There are no hearts waiting
to live here - chairs
empty, tables clear.

Double tall half-caff,
no foam, vanilla, no room
Americano.

The roofing man waits
for a hot breakfast sandwich -
eyeing the rain clouds.

Outside, a Wednesday
never seen before opens
above black mountains.

The barista hums a tune
her mother wore in her hair
as the bombs came down.

More often than not where
we are is more a matter
of what we have left.