Coffee Shop

A Poem by Jamie

It's a beautiful day, 25 people from toddler to retired newspaper thief have been drawn to this coffee shop. Is it the coffee? The atmosphere? A convenient escape from a non reflective, non church of commerce?

There is a predominance of white affluence. Polite conversation, casual glances at social media, a minor tugging of heartstrings when viewing world events under a carefully illuminated ceiling of redundant air ducts.

The wood isn't real... Well it's real wood, just that it's woodiness is ornamental, just like the carefully distressed glass, the hand written menu and the meticulously crafted stubble on mr red shirts 'thinking face'.

This is neither a temple of the exquisite, nor is it expeditious or economical. It is a public living room, a safe and reliable cave to return to, after a long day of hunting acceptance, admiration and jealousy.

For an hour, you too can keep the wolves from the door. Artificial stimulation, a warm womb to return to, surrounded by your kin, and a far removed window to the world at your fingertips.