Creatives gather, pouring out their souls
Orating vulnerabilities while
Appealing to the ears there to hear their spoken truths.
Competing with drink orders
Made in noisy espresso machines and blenders.
“This is a poem about my grandmother.”
Expressing heartfelt truths of love and sadness.
While students in the corner
Giggle and whisper
As if no one is speaking.
“Shhh,” whispers the man
To the bag lady on his left.
Pulling bags from under her layers of clothes,
Organizing them all
Unbound and straight
She ties them up, separately
One by one.
“This one is about my time in Israel.”
Recounting the past of her grandparents
And other holocaust survivors.
Sharing a special bond
While the old man searches for an outlet,
Nazis. Loss. iphones.
“This poem is about private moments after our wedding ceremony.”
Sacred. Special. A time to breathe.
Sharing details as the woman crunches
Her panini and sips her organic, sugar free,
Non-fat, non-flavored tea.
Hot water please.
“This is about my daughter and our relationship.”
The door swings open and an old man struggles inside
Stopping in the doorway to check out the scene.
He hesitates, deciding finally to
Shuffle his old body wrapped around a backpack
To the coffee bar.
“One more poem about my grandmother.”
I see a woman staring at me,
Pointing me out to a gentleman next to her.
I pretend not to notice and hope my own awkwardness
Doesn’t betray me.
She approaches me – bends down and speaks,
“Oh, I thought you were somebody that I knew, but you are not her.”
I smile at her and say,
“I am just here for the poetry.”