'I find poetry under every rock, in all the nooks and crannies of life- search for the dark and light of who we are, in what we assume to be terrestrial and mundane. When I feel at a loss for subject matter I simply look to the moment: where I am and what I am doing always has a poem in it.'
- Jeff Walt |
Every day I tie on an apron, wrap the long,
white straps around my waist twice
to hold me there, tether me to eight hours
or more of pouring coffee. I sing the common,
everyday music of an urban café: "Iced grande
fat-free latte!" for seven dollars an hour.
I listen to co-workers' problems: Jen frustrated
with the men in her life and Tim wondering if
he should move back to San Francisco. I shoo flies
from inside the pastry case, flip through the glossy
pages of my fantasies: skinny dip for a minute
in the warm waters of Hawaii, sip a margarita
on the beach, perplexed by how I'll spend my millions.
I wonder, like the rest of the world, what I am doing
with my life. I am good to the customers, treat each
elderly woman like she's my mother, pour a little kindness
into every espresso, give away scones to the homeless
when no one is looking. After work, I rush to the bed
for my lover's eager touch, having stood on my feet all day,
both of us perfumed with the scents of our professions'
oil and coffee. She rubs her face into the arabica bean's
rich, aromatic fragrance on my neck. We rest, exchange
a few stories: I tell her James bought a neon thong
on the internet and she says Steve and his wife are expecting
their fifth child, What's one more! he joked, asked if we'd take it.
We enjoy our few hours in the evening, shower away
the grit of our common jobs: gasoline, triple cappuccinos,
mocha lattes, orange pumice hand cleaner, Sencha
and Wu Wei. We scrub off the day that has kept us
from each other, hours we'll never get back; wring
the malaise of minimum wage from our souls.
My hands concentrate on the details of her body, find
a knot of pain and stay with it, knead the ache, rub
my entire body against hers as though there are layers
that I can strip away to reveal the bright soul beneath,
as though digging with the shovel of my body can scoop up
the root of longing to hold it there before me in plain view.
When the work of love is done, we lie dazzled
with a new smell melting over us, clock-out for the day,
punch life's time-card into the machine of sleep,
having taken everything the body has to offer, joyfully used
by want. The scent of our love will lie with me like a child
through the night, wake when I wake, and the next morning,
when I stand sore and tired at the register, nodding
in agreement with my worst customer complaint of the day,
letting him be right, the scent of my lover will rise
from the heat of my T-shirt and remind me.