Friendly faces
Soft, silky voices
Unlike the punk music
That reverberates overhead,
In this tiny, unlikely coffee shop
That doesn't smell like coffee,
But of small, carefully baked pastries
That sit lonely on a windowsill,
Not likely to see the rabid blue sky
Or the tall, elegant façades
Of buildings constructed from the ground up.
And how lonely they must be,
Just like the people behind the counter,
Who long to feel the beating heat
Of the forthcoming sunlight
Or the sense of freedom earned
Just by walking these quiet city streets
Dominated only by a love for adventure
Or a love for all things immaterial.