Hierophany

Third cup.
Jazz.
A man is talking with Ray the barista.
Hum of refrigerator.
Coins. Tip money dropped in a glass jar.
Coffee maker — frothy release of steam, metal stirring along metal.
Drums. Piano. Saxophone.
Fridge door closes; cushioning.
Ray greets a customer, “How’s it going?”
She orders a latte mocha triple shot.
Talk of parking, a popular topic this morn.
Coins again.
Ray laughs.
Air ducts rattling.
“Whip cream?”
“Please.”
Banging sound, a gathering into a bottom.
Frothy whirring.
More banging.
Two men looking, talking, wearing hard hats.
Demonic frothy whirring.
Shuffling, paper crumpling.
Karen arrives, reads Steppenwolf.
Karen shifts to my table though I am wary at first.
Ray, Karen, and I talk about compost heaps of all things.
Spontaneous combustion comes up as a topic.
The shop closes at noon.
Lynn, the owner, gives me and Karen each a clutch of old bananas.
“For banana bread,” she says.
Karen and I walk out together.
They’re re-tarring the streets.
I drive home; it’s bright out. Sunday. I put on sunglasses.

This entry posted by J Rand : 22:16