stormy out

gentle keystrokes.

pitter-patter.

a light shower of

letters fall.

words form shallow puddles.

misty, until it picks up.

falls faster.

typing in arhythmic spurts.

a storm rolls in.

a goddam deluge.

outta nowhere.

words bang down on the roof

like rocks, and

pile up like hailstones.

as soon as it started,

it’s passed.

birds come out.

step through the door.

outside with birds,

sifting fingers through piles of hail.

grabbing handfuls of cold words,

now getting old words.

blades of grass stick to wet fingers.

water all on your hands.

the rain is over.

it wasn’t perfect.

all those nice, ice

words melting.

the storm is gone.

tomorrow is a new day.

 

 

 

 

triangle coffee

this coffee

is triangle.

the floors are flat concrete.

blank walls.

decor: sparse.

i am one of six white people here.

there is no one else.

chill tunes roll over us and our devices;

over our mid-mod tables and chairs.

this coffee

is triangle.

kids of suburbia unleashed on

unassuming impoverished districts

build chic, empty holes like this.

we’re leaving the mickey d’s,

walmart, coca-cola clutter behind.

now we are empty.

at least we’re not violent?

our coffee

is triangle.