The coffee house of changing seats

By Steve Quirt

     Returning to the story–
Shiny glass-lined hall of companieros

 Immobile in the morning.

        Old Portagee cowboy silver hatband
        Old timer in the plastic hoodie eating of the gladness

        The ageless pony tail of the left-handed man
        The mighty single mother Her babies at her side.
                    
                        She holds the keys to heaven And lives in the mountains.

        The soldier and his faithful wife She left him at the door.
                   
                        His cup is full of sorrow His eyes they look so poor.

I serve and feed myself and am myself, myself.
I talk mostly of myself.

I am the lifetime mother talking to the lonely sister.

I am the rising artist with three jobs, chasing for the sun.
I am the school of friends swimming in conversation

         Wandering on without the thoughts left carelessly behind the curtain.

         The drops that will never make it to the ocean.

         The words that we lose in the music.

         The sun behind the cloud.

 I am the murmur of the moment the moving air that isn't.
      The sound of sliding Spanish footsteps in the background
           The lilting song of grace.
                The ring of the simple song of home.

Voices ripples through the ether.
     Coffee house mosaics
             Cast shadows on the walls
                    The blended forms of espresso dreams
                            tell stories not yet told.