Quiet Night at the Coffeehouse

My coffeehouse is cold and quiet tonight, It’s a nightshift. An old gay man plays Johannes Brahms on the black grand piano An angry Tragic Overture. He is gaunt from AIDS and as he plays he is sighing, And as he plays he is dying. It’s dark now. The chilly late October wind outside Forces a tree branch to tap-tap-tap on one of the window panes Like an elongated skeletal witch’s finger. I light candles for the tables on the front patio, Turn on the heater. Little gray stone statuettes of angelic cherub children Pose quietly with their baby wings In various locations outside Holding eternal vigilance over this domain. Appropriate that the Birds of Paradise surround them. These stone angel babies, They will never age as we do. They will never rage as we do. The coffeehouse cat that bolts from any approaching patron is a metaphor: Why run if you aren’t really going anywhere? I finish the lighting and chat with scattered patrons Then leave them alone to scribble mysteries into notebooks and diaries. Inside, An old woman named Shirley Orders from me a spinach quiche. Put it in the microwave and make it real hot, she commands, I like it real hot, she repeats. Don’t we all?  I say and she giggles. Shirley is like an innocent girl because at age 50, She suffered a stroke that made her the creature she is today. She shows me today’s horoscope and says her sign is Libra. She asks me if I know what Libra is. The Peacekeeper, I say, and she smiles, Walking away with her steaming quiche. Later in the night A pretty homeless girl and boy I know come inside the coffeehouse to bum a couple of smokes from me. She twitches nervously from her meth addiction. Her death addiction. Her death addiction. She already knows everything I won’t mention. She hugs herself constantly Because nobody else will. I remark that her skin is darker than usual As I offer up the two cigarettes. Did you get a tan, Hannah? It’s not dirt, she swears sheepishly, Although she’s well acquainted with dirt. She’s quite beautiful to be so homeless and lost and ruined. Her boyfriend Phil, however, is quite unappealing With his wan heroin appearance. He sports matted blonde dreadlocks and a chipped front tooth. They’re not in love, But he’s kind to her And fucks her nicely when she’s zooming, probably. Convenience and commiseration make a strange matrimony, I think to myself. We chat about nothing, I hug Hannah for the hell of it And firmly shake Phil’s bony hand. I tell them to keep hope alive, but it sounds hollow. It’s their life, not mine anyway. The homeless youngsters saunter out through the coffeehouse door side by side Past the stone child-angels. Phil and Hannah have something in common with these stolid stoic observers- Hard and young, But the statues are different in that They will never age as we do. And certainly They will never rage as we do. Written October 15th, 2001 © on Feb 02 2002 02:07 AM PST   0 • 10