I’m sitting in a coffee shop, thawing, breathing
Sipping. Kindling burns behind me in the fireplace,
Wire mesh stretched across it so I won’t thrust my child-curious
Hands between the flames.
On my right: a book shelf piled with novels and knickknacks.
Their stories pour into my cup, and I’m thankful
That they never leave me thirsty.
On each wall: sketches of coffee steaming in precious
Little cups. Vintage prints of advertisements read:
Buy more war bonds! Swanson TV Dinners!
The door opens and a draft walks in.
To my left: A woman, age thirty, in cat-eye frames.
She speaks to her friend in rounded syllables.
Words cradled in her tongue; she is deaf.
Hearing aids wrap around her ears like koalas.
Her friend is much older, though not old. Fifty or so, a cool mom:
Someone who still makes love to her husband. She’s wearing
A t-shirt with “Self-Rescuing Princess” printed on the front.
A yellow cartoon crown punctuates the “I” in Princess.
They talk about books they’ve read, ones they’re writing.
The deaf woman is analyzing semi-silence: A utopia where words
Are muted but not entirely destroyed. This is the topic
Of her novella coming out in paperback by December 2013.
Their food arrives. Discourse ceases.
Lamenting my loss of entertainment, I turn to the window
And watch the sun slip down from the sky like a zipper.
The lights of passing cars levitate on the street
And students file past each other on the sidewalk, clutching music
And cell service to their chests.
It’s eight o’clock. Best be heading home.
I return my soiled mug to the barista. She tell me to come back again
And I return her parentheses smile with quotation marks.
The door slams shut behind me. I feel strangely alone and I wonder if
It’s because I came to this coffee shop with no one, or if
It’s because I’ve left a book, unopened, on the shelf.