In Starbucks
a cover of Duke Ellington’s “Caravan”
plays over the speakers
in a way that cannot be ignored.
Quasi-artistic,
semi-bohemian,
mockably mediocre.
Were I living the life I should,
I would be sitting
in a coffee house in San Francisco—
a real one—
like the ones Hemingway
and Kerouac haunt,
but not the ones they actually
haunt, because those are
popular tourist stops.
A coffee house, though,
that has no corporate office
with men in suits
around a conference table
lamenting stock indexes,
market bottoms,
and underproducing store locations.
A coffee house, perhaps,
that would pour whisky into your mug
if you asked
because it does not cater
to stay-at-home moms
in tennis skirts and visors
who have no plans
to swing a racquet today.
If I were serious
about art and music,
I would have earphones playing
the real Duke Ellington,
and maybe Dizzy Gillespie,
or even Stan Getz.
Instead, I hear a woman’s call
to “Uncle Matt”:
‘Mom’s getting home from vacation. She called me from the boat today. Just calling to see if you all wanted to come over for dinner. I don’t know what I’m making yet. So call me later.’
Her son comes to Starbucks so often
he thinks the toys in the corner are his.
She snaps her cell phone closed
and asks her bored son,
‘Wanna go to the grocery store?’
At this moment
the only song title I can recall
from my personal knowledge of these giants
is “Caravan.”
“Desafinado” from Getz’s
Girl from Ipanema
will come on later,
but I only know that
because the 32-inch flatscreen
tells me so.
And instead of writing
my American Masterpiece,
or, at least my own scholarly interpretation
of an American Masterpiece,
I am reading teenage attempts
to complete an assignment
they don’t understand.
The undeniable truth,
as I sit here
among the step-children of genius,
is that Starbucks is my life.
It’s safe; it’s close; it’s familiar.
It’s a place to sit in judgment
and feel superior
to the cult of soccer moms
I’m a year away from joining.
At Starbucks,
I can pretend I adhere
to the Emersonian calling
of ‘greatness,’
and in the midst of the crowd
keep with perfect sweetness
the independence of solitude.
But this is not true,
and the bland cover design
of Tuesdays with Morrie
that sits beside my
grande
nonfat
sugarfree
vanilla
latte
tells me so.
