Morning Coffee in Santa Rosa
2006 April
　

Morning coffee in Santa Rosa

Belongs to the homeless saga,

From all the street corners,

Under the bridges

From the creeks,

Over the grass,

Beneath the sky,

Men, being spilled out,

Heavy with their over night odors,

Women, their freshness after a rushed toilet.

Chilly air finds them

In for the first pot of coffee.

Toasts of bagel, croissants, scones,

Shared scantly with

The homeowners of the city folks,

Who stay in or sleep in

Cozy bed, breathed of warm bodies of bedmates;

Husbands or wives; girl friend or boy friend;

Gigolos or prostitutes.

The natural morning comradeship

Warms up strangers in sharing cigarettes,

Small bargains of favors,

Bus passes,

Drugs,

Food stamps,

Two dollar morning breakfast,

Double cheeseburgers,

Gossips, threats;

Fights to face off over “my man”, or “my girl”,

“Can you spare a quarter?

No, thanks for asking, though.”

Transit Mall collects newly discharged men and women from the city,

Children and seniors alike;

Some one might jumps at some one else,

Fists on the throat,

As a result of too much coffee from the shelter,

The Living Room, St. Vincent de Paul’s kitchen.

Stir up ancient jealousy, anger, negativity,

“Hit, pissed off, stay away!”

“Shit, God, Lord, Probation officer.”

Morning air is more cheerful,

After a drizzle,

A shower,

A down pour,

A let-up.

When the shops become noisier,

With familiar stories,

Repeated wisdom,

Recycled sorrows,

Breakable dreams.

Sooner than later,

The groups of earliest visitors break off.

In a warmer sunlit spot,

Bodies lie down

In carefree embrace,

With dog tucked in by the leg,

A guitar un-tuned,

A drum unbeaten,

A bike without lock chain.

A sleeping bag is rolled up.

Early risers,

Bike riders,

Joggers,

Delivery guys,

Bagel girls,

Tourists on diet, with weight control sheet,

Business personnel in suits, cups in hands.

City is more diverse,

With well rested folks,

Brighter looks on the faces,

Spectacled eyes on stock pages,

On George Bush,

On Ben La Din

On asparagus and mushroom dishes.

　

Following the sun when morning is chilly,

Following the shade when morning is hot.

Three benches be visited,

From the west side

of the fountain in the morning,

To the East side

when the grass is heated to dry and dews lost.

Their lustiness under footsteps.

　

Cigarette butts litter around,

Dogs make no effort to belong,

A banjo is playing by the fountain,

A pair of ducks rubbing necks with each other.

Shops are hanging out “Open” sign,

Coffee smells perfumed morning bodies,

An old man takes a seat by the window,

Reading the first page and keeps an eye

On the lonely lady in her purple dress.

Morning coffee in Santa Rosa,

Fresh and repeated aroma,

The same cup

And the same chair,

The same look

And the same longing,

For a warmer greeting and

A distant side-glance,

Hello, my dear….

See you soon and take care.