Coffee Talk

Overheard: That’s her. She’s here every day eavesdropping on people’s conversations.

Where it took me: I continue to be fascinated by the blurred line between public and private. If you choose a public place for a private conversation, you may be compromising your right to privacy. If you don’t want others to hear, don’t speak loudly enough for them to be part of the conversation.

The poem

Coffee Talk

At first, nothing but

bean-grind and steam-wheeze,

sneaker-squeaks, heel-taps.

Bells over the opening door.

Horns and the Doppler effect

of traffic passing.

Just below 70 decibels,

the ear attunes.

It’s mostly murmur and mumble —

I realized the problem …

everyone deserves a chance …

so you broke up …

just go with it …

we call it football … —

until your raised voice forgets

its public place,

releases secrets from stage-whispers.

Truth Is a House Made of Tea

Overheard: There’s your own truth that you live by.

Where it took me: This statement is either very profound, or very twisted. Its potential has been on my mind for several weeks, but every time I try to write, my writing turns into platitude. Halfway through writing from the prompt today, I stopped, not happy with the trite, sitcom-like character I was drawing. But I had just written about a smell I remembered from childhood, and that got me writing about scent, and that reminded me of seeing Chinese artist Ai Wei Wei’s solid house of tea at a recent exhibit. I had made a note to write that tea house as a metaphor for something. Thinking of it today made me consider the house of tea as a metaphor for what we consider to be our own truth.

The poem

Truth Is a House Made of Tea

Ai Wei Wei builds his Tea House

the way a child draws home:

straight lines, solid expectations,

a cube packed tight,

safe from intruders.

We build our truth this way.

We forget its walls are made of leaves.

At night they dream of wind,

in the daytime wish for heat.

Crave water; a grave risk worth taking.

Fingers unfurl and unfurl.

The wolf never imagined a house like this.

There is always a way in.

On the Menu

Overheard: Everything bagel! Cup of ice!

Where it took me: I’m always amused by the things people order, even more so when I realize that some orders sound like personality traits. Since I’m a writer, I get to make things up anyway, so even if I’m guessing at those traits, that’s part of my job. And it’s Hallowe’en, a good day for considering the costumes in which we present ourselves to the world.

The poem

On the Menu

If we could order up people

like we order coffee:

Tall decaf. Blueberry scone.

Tall, not too excitable.

Blueberry; can be both wild and cultivated.

Scone; has some history. Sweet, but not cloying.

Everything bagel.

Overeager. Wants it all.

Bottled frapuccino and a pumpkin muffin.

Doesn’t care to wait. Gourd-shaped.

Grande caramel macchiato.

Open to possibility.  Pushes boundaries.

Tall banana latte.

Blonde. Unconventional.

Iced venti latte.

Cold, direct. Needs a lot of coffee.

Cup of ice.

Sexually frustrated.

Viennese coffee.

European, arty, distinguished.

In here, people don’t look like their dogs.

They resemble their drink orders.