Customer

sitting at a yardsale1
rickety card table
a cloudy, droll
Saturday morning

yard sale boredom
broken only by
protracted
used appliance deal
negotiations
with dubious
dollar store
Trump-wannabees

dumping a half mugmorningglories2
of stale coffee onto our
cyclone fence-climbing
Morning Glories

a change-purse toting
fortysomething
housewife-financier
chides my wastefulness,
asks the price
of the empty mug

feigning indignancy
I proclaim my intent
is simply to keepmorningglories1
my morning glories
awake through the sale

Not quite skeptically
she asks candidly if
that really works,
musing on her own
crop of backyard
morning glories, her
caffeinated prospects
of keeping them awakecookiejar
longer on a daily basis

“Go easy on the cream”

I advise solemnly
heading inside for
a refill and Tylenol
making a mental note
to charge her
full price for the
cracked cookie jar

Mark Lucker

Saturday morning

first light of day
bright silence rules

sun, fresh coffee
illuminate fleeting,
holy solemnity

First steaming mug
is communion, a
shared indulgence

professing to dog;
Rat-terrier, canine
father-confessor

What can I say?
We’re Protestants

Bartender genome

Sitting alone at a bar downing a
espresso2row of tequila shots will earn you
something from across the bar;

griping rights,
pour-out-your-heart privileges –
at the very least, a knowing nod,
acknowledging smile, tacit agreement,
‘go for it’ shrug

Sitting by yourself at Starbucks
counter coolly throwing back
espresso shots while clicking awayinoutcircle2
on your laptop earns you
ignored indifference as most baristas
lack the hereditary imperative of
the best barkeeps, while
increasing suburbanization of the
traditional, dimly-lit, urban habitat
is rendering the trusted, guru-esque
breed of mixologist one of our
most endangered species

For anyone mastering the hybrid genetics,
there is a Nobel Prize in it for you.

Or a perpetually overflowing tip jar

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2016
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd