Revisiting the Outreach
and on the way
passing by the last chance cafe,
we
stop for a mug or two
having a chat
the way old friends do,
talk about the beach and
the Outreach Cafe
and the days that we stopped by
those days when we weren't high.

It's slow now and
that's the way things go now.

But we remember
when it felt like December in July

we moved on.

I have a bashed-up coffee donker,
From too hard and too much dinking —

It sits there, next to my retro, white barista-chine*,
On my movable wine bar,
Slash coffee trolley cart;
My all-in-one entertainment station.

Where, previously, I had a silver aluminium bucket
Storing all my coffee sloshes.

It seemed like a convenient (cheaper) way
To free my frustrations fancifully —

I could have gone to a firing range,
Or let some golf ***** fly,
Usually though,
I just internalise the anxiety and rage —

Life is fragile
Like a china tea cup cracked —
Do we hold on to these crooked pieces,
Like we hold our inner wounds,
Hoping to mend them one day —
Is it something sentimental?
Mindful?
Frugal?!

Precious.