The Freckled Barista’s God

I sit at a cafe on Third Street and Flower
With a blue pen
And soggy notebook
Wet from Canadian beer
I’m not used to
The boldness of blue ink

Here I attempt to write
The next Book of Psalms
Or the next neck-cracking poem
Spoken by the iron voice
Of Johnny Cash

I want to write something that will make
A man
Or woman
Think twice
And nod at my stroke of genius

They shall
Worship my words

I could write about the city
The taxis
Cigarette butts that are
Smeared on pavement
And the sexy skyline
Of pillared buildings

But I always write about the city

I could write about my hunger
For medium-rare steak
Blueberry pancakes
And spiced rum

But I am always hungry

I could write about my abhorrence for malls
The tired mothers in strollers
Waiting in register lines
Accompanied by over-synthesized
Pop songs
Playing from ceiling speakers

But I will always abhor malls

I sit
Writing in silly phrases

“Love is the abolition of a male ego”

What the fuck does that even mean?

Words slumped together
Blurred
Between each
Notebook line
I imagine literary critics
Spitting at my poems

Then the barista walks toward me

I’m distracted
By the freckles surfacing
On her overly-rounded face
Perfectly aligned
in a disorder
Like God played a game
With her pigment
I notice her brown straight hair
That almost reaches the
Ends of her neck

She reeks of sweat and coffee
But I love coffee

The dame
Cleans the table next to me
And hums a song
That only she knows

She catches me staring

“What are you writing about?”
The freckled barista asks eagerly
As if interested
In reading the dump
I created

“Just some poems”
I casually reply
My voice sounding suave

I sip my sugarless coffee

“That’s neat! I’ve always wanted
To write”
She giggles

“Why don’t you?”
I ask
Forcefully trying to make
Eye contact

” I don’t know how to write really,
Haven’t been to school in ages
And besides,
I can’t rhyme”

“I never rhyme”
I say with disinterest

She smiles
Tells me
That register duties call
And there
I sit writing
With my damn coffee
And shitty lines

The whole time she looked at me
As if I were some sort of
Platinum God

Writer’s block is being a bitch
This evening
For a little fun I tear
A few lines from my notebook

“I sit in a cafe looking
For the words
The words that clamor
In my skull
But fail to reach my ears”

I fold the paper eight times making it
Into a small and pressed square
I hand it to the gal
Then head straight to the Amtrak station

I know she loved that bullshit
While I hated it
But to her I was the God
With the gift of entangling words
Into love and tragedy

But
Now that I think off it
I wouldn’t mind being
Her God

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