Felix Purat

Hot Coffee For Hot Days

– For the Café Mediterraneum, Berkeley, CA

My readied latte
lazes on a sun-soaked,
sugarcoated counter
whose marble mimes
of Kennecott malachite,
one among a straightened row
of caffé lattes venting steam,
awaiting their respective persons
of purchase hiding
inside stuffy washrooms
wiping sweat from
their porous backsides
with towelettes soaked
in Calabrian citrus
that could have come from KFC
if there was still one left
in Berkeley, California;

so claims the barista,
who daydreams of Piedmont
where the gianduia grows,
romantic daydreams that follow
a soaking in the summer sauna
of perspiring thoughts
first innovated in the depths
of Finnish forests;
or, vielleicht,
during early afternoons,
meditating inside the Mediterraneum
halfway into
a globally warmed month of May,
drinking hot coffee on hot days
as consumers of the Ethiopian drug
observe the Telegraph Avenue peoples,
never seeming to mind
their own damned business
in the granny smith apples of
their nonchalant eyes.

 

 

Felix Purat lives in Europe. He has been previously published in Paris/Atlantic, Poetry Salzburg Review and Pulsar. Felix has just completed a pamphlet of poems and a novella.

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