In little coffeeshops
By the back corner, far from the exits
But near the little hall leading to the bathroom
At a time set by a large window
The poet, his soul filled with words and reasons to say them
But unsure how to convey them
Can observe the nerves and synapses
Converging in this single axis
The windowside throne, the great looking glass
Provides a view of every soul to pass
Through the door to the core of any good café
The front register
Where they serve the junkies
Their first no cream no sugar fix of the day
The register ******* this sunrise shift stands tall and wears
A pleasant smile
Like a suit of armor
For the fractures frayed and loosened pieces
Of her 65 hours a week between two jobs psyche
From his back corner vantage point
The poet sees this early morning warrior
And watches her adversaries approach
The sleep deprived and the caffeine dependent
The men in suits with leather briefcases
Hustling and bustling through self inflicted exhaustion
Work force revenants who begin to shamble through the door
Out of the early morning mists at about 5:30
just as the world is shrugging of the shroud of night
In his seat of power, the poet, lord of the room
Can see, despite the dim lights of the coffeeshop
These early birds, gaunt and hungry like vultures
Standing shoulder to shoulder with the last of the night owls
Shabby old things with ruffled feathers
Too tired to sleep or simply without a roost.
Their re rimmed eyes provide a window
Through which a sovereign of the word
May glance upon their tired souls
Yes from that lovely back corner
The poet is a king, a lord in noble regality
Reshaping reality
Sitting in the back of any coffee shop
In Phoenix Arizona
In America
In the world
In this whole great evergrowing span of universe
And turning people into words.
