The barista tells me, Have a nice day.
Thank you, I say, I will.
And turn to face clean
windows stretched across the patio
where a bald man touches his head
under the sun.
Two other
smokers in white v-neck t-shirts
examine the dried paint
that licks their forearms.
I step out
to the patio and the bus stop and Loring Park
and beyond that, Minneapolis
rising off the plains
as a gypsy
June arrives. The smokers, the barista
and me, too, we act as if this
ripeness were common. As if
we could order anything
at the counter.
When suddenly
the bald guy does a little
—this is the word: jig—
right there on the sidewalk.
A half dozen little steps
this way, then that, his hands spread
like a clown in the park, as all this
happiness finds a way
into the air, like pollen.
Poem © Lee Colin Thomas. All rights reserved.
Thank you to the editors at Salamander for originally publishing this poem.
Barista image [cc] by