Fingernails; Nostrils; Shoelaces

the espresso machine is leaking, the scone is gone from the case, the skyline is dotted with green café rooftops;
Benny finally got off the stuff and Betty now has a job
as a barista; and
the chimney sweep was quite delicate as he
ordered up a tall
macchiato.
I walked miles through the city and recognized
nothing as I forced a giant bear claw into my
stomach while the inside of my head felt
airy as if I was about to go
mad.
it’s not so much that caffeine does
anything but more that it keeps doing
nothing,
there’s no release, just gurus and self-
appointed experts and hipsters.
the more people drink, the less there is
to drink.
even the best cups are dry sawdust.
I watch the lattes dripping and take copious
notes on futility.
then the faucet springs open again
and there are the beautiful smoothies
and powerful mochas running
along the counter.
such sadness: every drink trying to
break through into
blossom.
every latte should be a miracle instead
of a machination.
in my hand rests the last caffé Americano.
the baristas roar like lions and the walls
rattle, dance around my
head.
then the barista looks at me, caffeine breaks my
bones and I
drink.

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