At Forbes and Murray, I see the man who sits
in the booth next to mine, every morning, and I
ask, "Are you an orphan today, too?"
Silky's, oh Silky's, with your expensive
bitter coffee, with your young and nubile
waitresses who would not defend
me, like a she-wolf her cubs, from the intrusions
of smoke-bumming louts and others, various
and sundry, who might disturb my precious
Oh Silky's, you are not a bad bar, a dive, a shithole
or squalorous parlor, or any other slander
my mind might conjure as I consider
stepping through your doors.
But you are no Cage, and now you tell me
you don't open 'til four?
An orphan again, take me, oh Coffee Tree!
No, don't say that, don't you dare!
But it is true, today: "No Mocha Froza for you."
The mix is all used.
And as I sullenly sip my iced mocha
latte, thinking, would it kill you
to have a smoking section? my eyes alight
on a small plastic tub, holding inside
it a thing I've long sought. And as I purchase
my peanuti noodles, this orphan knows
the world's not all dark.