every afternoon

and how does the other half live?
a caramel swirl, some foam,
a pearl-skinned girl with hypothetical concern,
she doesn't know
but she does have a way of
shifting my thoughts, or concerns,
her name is, it's on the tip of my whatever,
even i still have much to learn.

we shift in chairs sometimes
and sometimes strangers
walk past with steps,
measured or heavy, amiable and thoughtlessly
shuffling their soles on hardwood,
stepping easily, lazily through life;
nudging tables and touching stools, or chairs,
who do they belong to?
the desire to touch that which is in the way;
brushing the walls, chairs, bricks and mortar grooves,
sometimes slides along my finger tips.
she delivers my drink, nimble fingers and parted lips,
i search my pockets for words to say,
coins, a thank you, a thimble,
a kiss!
there is an always of things to touch,
and of things in your way.

main street creeps with cars
circling the block for my amusement,
life is outside, but not within these
parochial means, or seats,
and despite my best efforts of thought
and theory, we are all sentient beings,
i think.
where is my concern? where did she,
o these diminishing returns.
make room for another drink of whatever,
make room for all that i have to unlearn.