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The taste of coffee.
The sound of jazz.
The sight of a rainy night in Paris
Through this cafe glass.
I sit.
I sip.
I tap my cup,
Like the second-hand ticks the clock.
I feel like an old grandfather
To the world that I never see,
As I sit in front of the glass,
In this passenger seat.
As the cafe Open sign flickers in the window,
I see a jazzy lady, with eyes and hair like coffee,
Walking past, and coming in through the door.
She sits by my side.
I say, “Hi.”
She smells the coffee on my breath
And says, “Oh, I can go for some of that.”
And then kisses me,
Like she’d hold a rose to her nose,
She pushes my lips to hers.
Okay, haha, that’s not how it really goes.
I’m daydreaming.
But she is really here.
I don’t think I can go up to her and say anything.
I just nod my head, look into my coffee and stare.
It keeps me awake.
It gives me this beautiful taste, and for what?
I nod my head again, and I look up.
I sit.
I sip.
I tap my cup.
I look through the window,
Knowing I should just go home.
Sure, I need eight hours of sleep,
But I don’t need to be up this long.
I should just go home.
Tomorrow, maybe,
I’ll be strong enough to say hello,
After my cup coffee, of course, lol.
Oct 2, 2018
This one is similar to my previous poem "Coffee (personification)".
I guess you can look at this poem as showing how we met lol
although I didn't write it to.
The terraces and neglected cafes stays pretty, and even quiet.
The weight of day. The sunset sugar pills. Blue lamppost, a big blue.
Teasing ******* friend, mocking the boy with the piercing on this left face,
The lipstick was twice priced, yes so, A one, five and two with two makes ten.

The chit chat after more chat of short people, talk people, spokespeople
and Notpoeople. Strike twelve, now boredom. His huffing flu resolved itself
"Yessum," he tried saying. For whatever reason. Was a boyfriend of hers.

Indecisive of the next blow. With his little socks and socks of red and green
Put on orderly. Hopes to avoid his thickening, unforgiving secret. Still mixed clues.
A puzzle, a puzzle piece in the centre of question. Arises the attitude remedy.
His only skill is comedy.  A blaze morning sun rises now. Oh dear, not now.

Strolls about resembling exactly of kings. A King, he told himself to be like.
Waiting, waiting, in a hurry he's waiting to wait for the girl to come, presently.
In Proportions, he waits presently. So easy and a little hasty, here she comes -

Sugar on ice, not all but a slice delight, my precise precise. Having lunch,
Delicacy lemonade, in likeness, with a perfect meal with sauce on fries.
There's too much honey in his drink - Tender change, good meal they say.


They lost each other in April,  A signal of hurt was played in a collection of rue.

She was left with a blister, mostly solemn, absent and good.

The terraces and cafes remain pretty, and even quiet.
Life at Seventeen
if i get the job
as a dishwasher
at the cafe or
the nursing home

i might get my
tragically beautiful
cinderella story
after all
looking as lovely,
as a blossom
in the midst of Spring.

i see no haste
you are not of
an amiable ambience.

your eyes gaze and
speak of a million lies
you've heard
yet withheld.

fastened onto a
seat of comfort;
yet so tense
and susceptible.
Based on Juan Luna's painting of "Parisian Life."
Patrick Aug 30
My favorite cafe sits five blocks from
the hospital stench of lysol and dysphoria
where those with temple-like bodies have
their sanguine veneers of health shattered
by doctors in white coats wearing pore-less masks
holding clipboards telling them you might have
two weeks of hearing left — four weeks tops.

No more whooshing of RTA doors opening wide
No more hearing your knees crackle
as you pick up a wallet you heard slap the concrete
Bon voyage to the rain pitter-pattering against
your roof in the early morning when
you can feel the stillness of everything

Sitting, I try recalling the sound of my
Mom’s voice yelling from the stairs
in that tone she knew would spring you
up out of bed just to make it stop
But all I’m left with is the memory of remembering.
I guess that’s all I’ll have in the end —
the agonizing search beyond a recollection’s mutated offspring
distorting the story of my own life to the point where
I won’t even know the serenity of this vacant cafe.
Jack L Martin Aug 23
Here I am
Where am I?
I stare at you
You stare at me

I see you speak
But hear nothing
My mind wanders
I hear some words

Birds are chirping
Why am I hungry?
I just ate lunch
Is the Earth calling me?

Phones are ringing
Tweets are tweeting
Are you ok?
Are you paying attention?

I nod my head
But heard nothing
You look apeased
My goal is accomplished
Vexren4000 Aug 21
Morning Joe,
Steaming up into exhausted nostrils,
A small pick me up,
For the morning scuffle,
Something some people wake up for,
Just a simple cup of coffee.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 13
Dark and spiced flavours warmed by
brown sugar, nutmeg,
grated carrots, ******, cloves
Vanilla cream cheese,
candied orange zest,
pecan nuts
So here's the eleventh Epulaeryu! ^-^
Timeless, tender, tremendous!
Carrot cake, the classic which is great with a cup of coffee, or in my case, a cup of tea! ^.^
This is my mom's favourite, too. When she took me to that cafe a few days ago, this is what she had. She tried my lemon meringue **** and I tried her carrot cake. Heaven in my mouth, I swear T.T I could cry from the freshness alone. I know I say everything is heavenly, but man, I can't describe it any other way!
...I'm coming off as a glutton, aren't I?
Lyn ***
Lyn-Purcell Aug 13
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Puds are long, vanilla rich
Custard honey-sweet
Poured down from the liquid sun
Caramelised crust
turns nut-brown
and bubbling
Tenth Epulaeryu! ^-^
I'm not gonna lie,  I liked it! The custard was like honey, very smooth but
I found that it's a bit TOO egg-y for me.
Then again, it could just be the cafe I went to at the time.
I'm open to trying it again, though I admit, I'm not in a rush.
One day! ^-^
Lyn ***
Gale L Mccoy Jul 31
find me
in the corner of the local cafe
cling fast to sanctuary
aura of creativity
illusinary productivity
idealized possibility
i would rather bury myself
in it's walls forever
than leave
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