man it’s twee heaven
i’m in a coffee shop reading malcolm gladwell
trying to ignore the hippie barista
and a sensitive young patron
as they compare their hard life and times
a dude comes in, a famous mess
barefoot, pajama bottoms and drunker than a tavern
"can i have a free french cappuccino?"
the barista says yes and while she makes it
he leans into my space making comments
he’s way too smashed to deliver with any trace of pinache
"here’s…  this guy…"
she gives him his coffee
"oh man… it’s not french…"
he staggers out of the place, cup in hand
the kid customer asks if he comes in a lot
"he’s been in here a few times," says the barista
"the guy ever wear shoes?" i ask
"i don’t judge," she says, lip ring quivering
no judging from her, except for me--
constructing a gallows and sentencing me to hang
for being old, male and normal
well she’s got me there