Sunday Night Coffee

I walk into the coffee shop and raise an eyebrow at the manager. Pay without ordering, not because I'm cool but because no one has to tell their pusher what their poison is. Sit down with a magazine... the other great addiction in my life with my iPod loud enough to make the room seem silent. Oddly, I can still tell when someone uses the milk steamer.

The young man at the counter winces at the taste of his first espresso.... don't worry boy, the first time is always like that.

The rest of the world, the part that matters anyway, argues about the world domination of Starbucks and the innate moral superiority of the locally owned coffee emporium. My world is content to see a frothing pitcher... in pastoral urbania the aficionado, posh den mother, disaffected college student, the tortured artist all sit together and smile. Unable to contain the warmth that is the community of civilization.

Local artists and author's works sit prominently... I wonder if anyone ever buys them.

There are baskets of newsprint and magazines. The latest issue conveniently summiting the pile. Never emptied, I'm convinced the oldest editions compost, filter out the sides of the basket, and are swept up each night with a regiment of rogue straw wrappers.

Tonight is folk music night... every Sunday night in some sort of odd replacement of worship for those who find no comfort in the company of the faithful. The strings on the choir director's guitar are uncut in what must be a tribute to Bob Marley.... or maybe Coolio.