Coffee Shop

"They refuse to answer, buildings only speak to each other."

Everything in the coffee shop matches. Shirts match shoes, shoes match belts, and coffees match people. Hazelnut mocha latte with skim milk for the designer purse and expensive shoes. Chi tea for the loafers and hemp necklace. Black no sugar for the no-nonsense suits. Cream and sugar for the vintage t-shirt and cargo shorts. None of this supplies inspiration. Muffled commotion comes in from the streets. Noise travels on the wind leaving behind a haze to remind the inhabitants of a city’s heat. The coffee shop can not afford to let the air-conditioning run, but yet everyone sits and sips. Outside the buildings seem to shiver as if they were to step into a pool.  Convinced they have feelings, an overwhelming urge builds up. A wanting to shout out that they need to jump in all at once, get it over with quick. They refuse to answer, buildings only speak to each other. A stark language that is heard when wind passes down a city’s alleys and seen when sunlight glints off glass and steel. Spoken from a facade as they hold in the black coffee drinkers with their mumblings of numbers and sales. A constant jabber that would bring insanity if the structures could not discuss the sites below. Unknown to black suits that have shaded the windows with their accounts. The do not see a designer purse over a shoulder or red bottom heels moving forward. Not a glimpse as each step socializes perfume in the streets. Fragrance is lost to the steel, just as it is lost to the no-nonsense suits, and as it is lost to the designer dress, whose window is shaded by tweets.  So the latte sleeps in its cup, remaining untouched as a slight hazelnut aroma tries to escape through the lid only to be forced back by the complexity of a symphony. A musical construct conducted upon the senses. Musical waves that are pondered by hemp, truly disregarded by loafers.  Lost to all, but a vintage T and a regular cup of coffee.

- Dennis Birtch