Plates clang from the kitchen
two different conversations,
one in front of me
one to my right
take place, clearly.
One’s about nothing,
The one to my left is from behind the bar in the domain of the fry cooks,
it's hushed and in an Eastern European language that I can't quite place.
The droning persistent mass of unclear voices that exists anywhere that there is a crowd large enough to support it thrives over my left shoulder even at two in the morning on a Wednesday.
The East Village doesn't sleep,
my cappuccino arrives,
neither do I apparently.
Calm and collected,
the cappuccino is,
someone dusted cinnamon onto the foam
pure white with a dash of spice but nothing too exotic.
Pretty much describes the clientele at the moment.
My cappuccino is a metaphor for my fellow patrons.
I take a sip.
And, I suppose, myself.
A handsome dark man in a suit with wild hair sits at the bar.
An elderly white man impeccably dressed is next to him.
They don’t seem to know one another
but they've ordered the same thing.
dressed to impress
sit down and eat eggs and bacon with a side of pancakes
at two in the morning, on a Wednesday, in the East Village.
How different do they feel from one another?
Maybe not at all,
How different are they really?
Not much at all.
is John dating Ashley?’
says the conversation to my right.
‘Not at all’
is the response,
‘not at all.’