The Truth About Tigers

In coffee shops, laptop lids are rear windows,
broadcasting silent statements
and letting fellow patrons know
just where you stand.

The girl in the corner, her sticker proclaims
“Fuck Trump,” a sentiment I resonate with
towards petty strongmen and would-be tyrants.
yet, given my distaste for confrontation,
I’d likely articulate it more gently.

Across the big table, a Dallas Cowboys fan
declares his allegiance with an arsenal of stars
and helmets, a mini shrine on a silver surface,
while also showing support for breast cancer research.

The busy lady nearby, with her now surely cold
untouched espresso, types rapidly,
a talent probably perfected in college—
her computer inked with Kappa Delta pride
and burnt orange allegiances.

I see Marine Corps veterans, Star Wars aficionados,
feline enthusiasts, possibly a few Buddhists—
assorted band devotees, including two Deadheads,
and a man who insists you not mess with Texas.

But oddly enough, no proud parents of honor students,
or stick figure families in descending order
of height and age, which always makes me wonder
if the dog or cat at the end
is very small or very young, or both.