![]() narrative from the coffee shopA Poem by m.s.earlyI'm exhausted; no sleep. Two hours last night. So I made myself put work down and go out. I'm at the coffee house, having a fish taco, people watching, listening to a violin whine in an old timey mountain song. The sun is just coming out. It's been raining all morning. I find myself needing to adjust from something. Unsure what it is, but excited about it. Gillian Welch just came on the speakers in the coffee shop. If you've never heard of her, listen to Red Clay Halo. If you ever really really want to know me, ask me for a playlist and I'll send you the soundtrack of my moment. Have you ever been so excited to get to the next moment that the current moment is nearly unbearable? I'd feel like that if I weren't so damned tired. I miss not having a lover, but there's no one attractive to me at the moment. And that's a shame. I enjoy noticing the beauty of a woman. I enjoy relishing in the attention of a beautiful woman. There are no beautiful women in the coffee house this morning. Beautiful in their own way, but not my way. And that’s just not good enough today. I want a woman that I can look at and think, I couldn't possibly want anything more. And I want to be proud of her. I want other people to see her and think, he couldn't possibly want anything more... he's so lucky... how'd he pull that off? But inside their heart, they'll know. And if they're brave enough to ask me, I'll answer... "grace". I'm still hungry. The fish taco is gone. But the coffee's still hot. There's a mouth gaped woman, too old and too skinny shocked at something on her laptop. A rich white woman with her daughter. Both spoiled and entitled. Short pudgy waitress with a pony tail. An elderly couple with their teenage granddaughter (she has terrible posture). A middle aged catholic couple drawing a crucifix on their chest before and after saying grace. How beautiful. I wish I had someone saying grace with me. Sometimes I think I'm beautiful. Occasionally I even like what I write. I grapple with the limitation of my voice sometimes, but for the most part I sing along with myself in two part harmony and mentally select which friend should fill in on third. College coeds decorate the sidewalk. A girl is humming "What a Wonderful World", strained soprano, beside me. Geriatric men in windbreakers order coffee and doughnuts. I miss my grandfather. I took my daughters and their friend to see Muana. It made me cry. I miss my Cherokee grandmother so much. I haven't missed her this much in a long time. A fat bottomed girl is making the rocking world go ‘round while standing in line. I think I'd be more comfortable on the couch by the street window, but I don't want to draw attention by walking over there. Coffee is still half full. Afternoon lunch crowd thickens. A professor I know strolls in beaming and smiling. She's an atheist. Her husband is a phenomenal jazz pianist and brilliant mathematician. Also atheist. The line is wrapping around the counter. A cute thirty something, sunglasses on short, cropped, dyed blond hair. Seems to know a pale faced yoga pants with no make up. Looks great in jeans, but I can't see her light. Maybe she doesn't have one. The line is dying down. The coffee is barely warm. A guy I use to work with comes in with his daughter. I hope he doesn't recognize me. I'm too tired to tell him about the new job. Maybe I'll check out the window displays on Main St. I need a new belt. Or visit the cemetery where my paternal grandparents are buried. I’m close enough. There’s a shopping center across the road there. I’m trying to remember what the town looked like while they were still alive. There was a Winn-Dixie there, and none of the houses behind it were there. That was 1994. Grandma Gertrude is right at the feet of her mother Della May, affectionately called ma-ma, or Ma-Ma Mitchell. That time is gone. The sounds are gone. The smells are gone. As much I'd like to miss those times, I've got to spend my time building my daughters' tomorrow. And for that task, there's no time like the present. m.s.early 12/27/2016 © 2016 m.s.earlyAuthor's Note
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6 Reviews Added on December 27, 2016 Last Updated on December 27, 2016 Author![]() m.s.earlyVAAbout"A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep." -Salman Rushdie more..Writing
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