Saturday
Early, but not too
I bring her
a cup of coffee
rich stuff,
the good stuff
our special
Saturday blend
She stirs gently,
like the brew
setting the mug
on her nightstand
pheromones blend with
aromatic Arabica
Saturday morning
alchemy dissolves into
Saturday afternoon
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Sitting alone at a bar
downing rows of tequila shots
earns you your bar cred
griping rights: politics, sports,
love, loss, life’s inequities
pour-out-your-heart
privilege, at the very least
knowing, indifferent nod,
patronizing smile
tacit agreement smirk
‘go for it’ shrug
Sitting by yourself at Starbucks’
throwing back espresso shots
buys you a hipster buzz
clicking away on your laptop
caressing your smartphone to life
cyber-genie-in-rectangle-bottle
earning you little more
than barista indifference
as they lack the hereditary
imperative of the best barkeeps
worldly servers, even
past-their-prime barflies
beverage gentrification of the
traditional, dimly-lit, urban habitat
renders the trusted, guru-esque
breed of mixologist one of our
most endangered species
Master the artful hybrid genetics
of barkeeps and barista
there is a Nobel Prize for you.
Or at very least, a perpetually
overflowing tip jar.
– Mark Lucker
Saturday. Early, but not too.
I bring her a cup of coffee
the rich stuff, good stuff
our special Saturday blend.
She stirs gently, like the brew
I set the mug on her nightstand
Pheromones blend with
aromatic Arabica
Saturday morning alchemy
dissolves into Saturday afternoon
French Quarter coffee shop; ancient, transformed
corner-building with a long view, a cloudy morning
post-Saturday revelry, mingling with locals, the
normal eclectic folks of ‘The Quarter’ just being;
an older man, oblivious, sketches in a large pad,
a young woman writes in a leather-clad journal,
multiple laptops are in use, a variety of newspapers
strewn about, left graciously for whomever by others
my battered pocket notebook fills as my cup drains
Gawker tourists slow down while passing, eyeing
through eight-foot windows the local flavor,
animatedly debating the merits of stopping in
for a true New Orleans coffee experience wondering,
in their own pseudo-Bohemian ways, their personal
worthiness, unaware they already possess it
I was that gawker, not so long ago; stranger in a very
strange land, outsider in awe of the mystique
Now, some five years later, I sit at a table turned,
so to speak; on the inside looking out;
showing up just often enough, comfortable enough
in my status as local gawkee that I get the occasional
smile or nod from the genuine authentic I encounter
Not yet a true insider, I am enough ease that I blend
in with the locals, also understanding well the allure
from the other side of tempered glass, grateful that
I succumbed to the siren song that is the city of
New Orleans, wondering how many of those gazing
from outside will eventually be as charmed?
I want to get up, invite them to come on in, or to tell
them just stay there for a while, to let me watch them
watching me fill my notebook, as I have coffee to drink,
and plenty of blank pages to fill with newly inspired ink.
Sitting alone at a bar downing a
row of tequila shots will earn you
something from across the bar;
griping rights,
pour-out-your-heart privileges –
at the very least, a knowing nod,
acknowledging smile, tacit agreement,
‘go for it’ shrug
Sitting by yourself at Starbucks
counter coolly throwing back
espresso shots while clicking away
on your laptop earns you
ignored indifference as most baristas
lack the hereditary imperative of
the best barkeeps, while
increasing suburbanization of the
traditional, dimly-lit, urban habitat
is rendering the trusted, guru-esque
breed of mixologist one of our
most endangered species
For anyone mastering the hybrid genetics,
there is a Nobel Prize in it for you.
Or a perpetually overflowing tip jar
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Ponderable polemics, poetic 