The Starbucks Chronicles

Originally posted: Thursday, July 19, 2007 4:53pm

Sometimes I pretend I'm a poet.
Last summer, after having been immensely inspired by Billy Collins, I sat for several days in quiet observance of the goings on in my favorite crack house, I mean coffee shop, and this was the result:

Voyeurism

You can't seem to get comfortable
in your coffee house chair,
with your pen and your book of poetry.
Perhaps the music is too loud—
clashing with the rhythm of poems
written before the invention of Motown.
Maybe your clothes are new;
they don't yet support the slump of your back,
the angles of bent knees.
And then I wonder if you're pretending—
with your pen and your poetry.
You'd rather be dancing to the Supremes
than continue to spar
with the rhyme of an Ancient Mariner.
You'd rather be rolling down a hillside
than casting your eyes over lines
written by a foreign, Romantic pen.
Not your own.
But that takes courage—
so instead you sit there,
wriggling out of sync
with both Coleridge and the Temptations—
followed by the dancing of my eyes.


Nine to Five

I'm the only woman in this coffee house
on a Wednesday morning at nine thirty.
Is this the result of the Women's Movement?
Women working somewhere,
twirling fingers around a phone cord
and chewing the caps of pens,
while the men—pushed from their cubicles—
now sit in Starbucks, filling out applications,
reading want ads,
and searching online classifieds?


Interview

I'm glad I'm not you—
sitting in your new gray suit
with a pounding heart
and the occasional smell
of recently washed hair
and dabbed perfume.
I couldn't bear the agony
of eye contact with a stranger's eyes,
projecting feigned confidence,
as I muse about the fascinating world
of real estate investments.
I'd absolutely loathe
the crick in my neck and the tired cheeks
that come from pretending
the interviewer's arrogance is charming,
banality is engaging.
I'd rather sit here,
in the comfort of my roomy arm chair,
staring across
at the courage it takes for you
to sit at that hard, round,
crowded table for two.


The Problem with Poetry

Is that it requires thinking—
envisioning a place, a smile, a detail
from which to extract profound meaning.
What must I think of myself, when
standing on a bridge in Florence,
the Arno flowing beneath,
and the golden buildings blasting
the beauty and antiquity
of Renaissance masters,
I consider whether or not
I should eat margherita pizza
again for dinner.


Algophobia

I tell my students writing is like long-distance running
and ask them to tell me why.
"It's hard!" most shout out;
"It takes a long time until you feel good about it,"
one of the more adventurous, perceptive students remarks.
And I agree with them.
It is hard.
It's so fucking hard I'm afraid of it
and I know that if I don't set out,
then at least I will never feel
the pain of asphyxiation, and the collapse
of numb purposeless legs
before any hope of a destination.
"But it's good for you," says Janet,
smiling from her front row desk—
then more muffled,
sensing her minority vote,
"it's healthy."
And I wonder how much I agree
with smiling, upbeat, straight-A Janet.
For truly there is a danger
in running without sufficient conditioning,
motivation and speed—
especially under the oppressive heat
and the bright shining orb
of talent that lights the way.


Memory

I know you from somewhere—
yes, I'm quite sure
we must have worked on a project together—
in graduate school, perhaps.
I faintly remember doing all the work—
constructing meticulously detailed and artistic posters,
laboring for hours on the required written component,
and then carrying you through the presentation
as you mutely accepted recognition
for half the work.

Or maybe it's from yoga class.
Indeed, I think you stretched and breathed
in the front row—
a model for the rest of the class to follow.
You'd perfected your form
and demonstrated exemplary serenity
in the lotus position that weekly
twisted my legs into a painful pretzel--
distracting me from everything
but baseball game peanuts and mustard.

But then again, summer camp comes to mind.
I was 10 and am now pretty sure it was you,
standing on the pier, cigarette in hand, promising
it wouldn't kill me
as long as I didn't tell the counselors.
You talked in your sleep from the top bunk
in the corner and received a care package every week—
with bubble gum and Kool-Aid
you refused to share with anyone.

Yes, I definitely remember you.


The Fall of Her Discontent

For the last ten minutes he's been talking
about the football coach who died from a heart attack
while she's been maintaining heroic eye contact,
Herculean nods—pretending to care.
God forbid he suspect she doesn't share
his concern, his desire to be watching
football at this moment, his long-lost dream
to play in the NFL.
She'll cheer on his desires, his dreams
from her sideline of femininity—
she'll "rah rah" his detailing of injuries and draft picks;
she'll "Go-Fight-Win" his recitation of player salaries
and miscalculated field goal attempts;
she'll jump and perspire through his complaints
about corporate team management
and numbskull referees.
And through it all, she'll swing her ass in a skirt
that falls just below it,
and raise her arms to expose a flat, tanned pierced belly
in the earnest effort to divert his attention
into one solid second of mutual interest.


A Teacher's Nightmare

First day of school—
don't know schedule of classes—
can't find the classroom—
get there late—
class half over/half empty—
fear of getting fired—
no handouts copied—
no lesson prepared—
some parent observers—
students constantly entering and exiting the room.
Anger rising—
panic, humiliation—
insert irrelevant movie—
more kids leave classroom.
Merciless thoughts—
everyone of those little bastards will pay for this—
there's no one to blame but me.


A Student's Nightmare

Last day of school—
looking for locker—
knowing that even if I find it,
the combination is long forgotten.
Sitting in math class,
seemingly for the first time since first day of class.
Exam preparation—
math problems I've never seen—
teacher doesn't know me—
classmates roll eyes in exasperation
as I beg for help to understand
a semester's worth of math
I wouldn't understand even if
I'd faithfully attended class everyday.
Where have I been?


Music for the Masses

The man to my right insists on humming
along with the pre-programmed 80s and 90s pop tracks
the Starbucks employees grow increasingly deaf to.
"Tempted" by Squeeze.
But he's off-key, about two notes behind,
and I can't stand it. I want to shake him,
to scream in his face that people can hear him
and why on God's green earth would he want
to subject all of us to his complete musical ineptitude?
As I rise from my chair to grab him by the collar,
my mind flashes to a karaoke bar in Nice,
a tall American brunette choking up
a discordant rendition of "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers.
Sympathy pulls me into my chair.
The man collects his newspaper and leaves the shop,
whistling his way down the sidewalk.


Stroller

I watch you having a love affair with your baby,
and I envy your utter lack of self-consciousness.
I've been staring at you for several minutes,
and it's clear you have no idea about it.
Your eyes shift from your infant to the newspaper
for a few agonizing seconds—
your feeble attempt to pretend anything else in this wide world matters,
deserves your roving eyes as much as that fleshy bundle to your left.
You shake your head—
perhaps disgusted with our national foreign policy,
perhaps horrified at the price of oil—
but as quickly as disapprobation rises in you
enough to make your head shake,
you take a foot and begin to play gnaw;
you make silly faces until you've completely forgotten
about wars and gas prices—
and they don't matter anyway because you finally have a baby,
and that other stuff really doesn't affect you.