For Every Barista Ever, and Especially for Sunshine. 13 of 30. #napomo

Sunshine is a poet,
says her arm,
cut-out-heart with scissor
a permanent stamp;
a new name.

Sunshine makes coffee,
makes chai and latte,
sunshine is not her name.

Smiles slow as chemex,
steams the milk with her
eyes closed,
hair cut short to the neck.

I can’t stop calling her sunshine.

Something about her concentration,
the knife tattooed through skin
then out again,
the small drop of blood
and latin promise of poem
and present on wrist.

That smile is too calm, too eastern for such
pale skin and backwards baseball cap.
She doesn’t live here.
This east village coffee shop isn’t everything.

But I came here for this.
For her.
For someone.
We all did.
She doesn’t even know it.

I crawled off the couch,
threw out the crumpled kleenex
and loaded the dishwasher with
my soup bowl and spoon
because I couldn’t bear being alone anymore.

I walked slowly,
I came here for this smile.

This exchange of paper or plastic
for paper or glass mug.

Everyone wants a seat at the table.

This crowded cafe has windows that
make computer screens glare
back at those intent
on camping out to study, skype,
facebook, until someone tells them to go.

I came here for sunshine.

Green eyes set in a face
full of story, everyone
is static around her.

You make our world go round.
You give us sanctuary.

It’s a small thing, really.
But I see the poem in you.

I just want to say thank you,
for a seat at the table
and chai.


About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in 30 in 30, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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