Day after day, I have these cheap wood
Tables and chairs,
The constant chatter of
Two women, both wearing the same
Grey of the winter sky
And the one man
Sitting curled in a brown leather arm chair
In the very back, under a brightly lit
“Firehouse Coffee Co.” sign.
I don’t imagine that he is waiting for
A simple letter like I am.
Too intense, he is more like the stares of
Those painted black eyes of the Blues Brothers
Who sit and greet all us caffeine addicts. Or the
Strangely blank face of the firefighter on the pole
Who is forever a stationary decoration to this house.
He never looks up, which makes his features
Resemble now the bleak abstract
Paintings of the great Baltimore fire, smoke
Ash, soot, and still he never
Looks up at me; he does, however, take a small sip.
No, no, forget my previous thoughts,
This man in the corner is not any of these,
He is a government spy,
A landscaper,
A dock worker at the Canton port,
A philosopher and student of Keats.
He is a muse to all of us waiting on a letter.
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