This is for my own prompt at We Write Poems, about writing about an object in an unexpected way. I’m back at the same coffeeshop where I found the honey I wrote about the first time (because, really, I’m here at least three days a week), and all of the objects in here were demanding my attention. So I went for broke and just wrote about the whole place instead. I’m sipping my iced Nutella latté and feeling pretty good about it being the weekend. That’s how it goes!
(I know it’s not Sunday, but just bear with the imagery please.)
Sunday at the Café
Every church needs its trappings, from the tabernacle
chewing the beans into powder to the altar
stacked with chalices of hot, dark life.
Incantations are recited from the board: small decaf,
extra foam, hazelnut syrup. A handful of bills
for the collection box: a prayer for sleeplessness,
answered. And the priests in flannel, ripped jeans,
dark-rimmed glasses, move among their flock
full of benediction. No kiss of peace,
no homily, in this congregation: nothing unifying
except the sacred music of steam and blade.
And the wicker masks on the wall that gaze down
with tribal knowledge. And the incense that is
breathed in by everyone, woven with
the electricity of short-term desire.