The Truth About Tigers

The coffee shop I’m writing from today
Is my favorite kind of place.
Stained oak tables and battered counters, arabica brown,
Employee-owned, comfortably crowded,
Angsty barista sporting a shiny nose ring,
And snappy smile under chai-mocha eyes.
Hand-sprawled menu, simple drink descriptions
In dusty blue sidewalk chalk,
Cup capacities plainly listed in the language of the locals,
No need for hasty Italian translations,
Sonos speakers pouring a perfectly brewed soundscape
Somehow seamless from Dylan to Pavement,
Mazzy Star to Miles Davis,
Melodies landing lightly
Amongst the scattered conversation
Of eclectically caffeinated customers.