the coffee house ...
the coffee house fills to the brim
with bearded neo-revolutionaries
clicking the keys
of conspiracy
as they confuse
WiFi with inspiration
and send bleats
in 140 characters
or less into oblivion
hoping
at the very least
to have said something
to have hash-tagged
some truth
without realising
the whatever
of each of their thoughts
is really no thought
at all
and over in the corner
a klatch of pre-menopausal women
brandish flickering i-phones
and holding hideously named
paper cups of espresso
transformed into frothy
concoctions
that are sipped
over syrupy conversations
ending too often
in a most unfeminine
whoop or guffaw
burp or fart
and each is somehow reminiscent
of some lost Cinderella
waking the morning after
in yoga tights
that ripple and bunch
over three rolls of cellulite
where a once-pert ass
has long ago vanished
and in the midst of all this
something is brewing
someone begins to break down
as his eyes begin darting
this way and that
until at last
he bolts up from his chair
and stands on the
suspiciously tottery table
and begins to scream
something so obscene
that you'd expect
he would be unceremoniously
pulled from his wobbly
pulpit
and dispatched out
the nearest door
but here
in the millennial coffee shop
he goes unnoticed
by everyone
except for one elderly woman
wearing a tie-dyed scarf
who looks up at him
with a certain understanding
and applauds
with liver-spotted hands
with bearded neo-revolutionaries
clicking the keys
of conspiracy
as they confuse
WiFi with inspiration
and send bleats
in 140 characters
or less into oblivion
hoping
at the very least
to have said something
to have hash-tagged
some truth
without realising
the whatever
of each of their thoughts
is really no thought
at all
and over in the corner
a klatch of pre-menopausal women
brandish flickering i-phones
and holding hideously named
paper cups of espresso
transformed into frothy
concoctions
that are sipped
over syrupy conversations
ending too often
in a most unfeminine
whoop or guffaw
burp or fart
and each is somehow reminiscent
of some lost Cinderella
waking the morning after
in yoga tights
that ripple and bunch
over three rolls of cellulite
where a once-pert ass
has long ago vanished
and in the midst of all this
something is brewing
someone begins to break down
as his eyes begin darting
this way and that
until at last
he bolts up from his chair
and stands on the
suspiciously tottery table
and begins to scream
something so obscene
that you'd expect
he would be unceremoniously
pulled from his wobbly
pulpit
and dispatched out
the nearest door
but here
in the millennial coffee shop
he goes unnoticed
by everyone
except for one elderly woman
wearing a tie-dyed scarf
who looks up at him
with a certain understanding
and applauds
with liver-spotted hands
