[NaPoWriMo poem #5.]

The Whole Point of Holding Office Hours at Starbucks

I am letting the espresso wash over
me in waves. Comfy chairs never
change. Walk into any Starbucks

and the chairs will always beckon
you to sit, to lounge, to back away
from your life for as long

as it takes to finish your drink–
for as long as it takes to remember
a big smile, ridges around his eyes,

the promise that comes with a crush
headed for disaster. I sit, MacBook
on the armrest, on the other side

of blood-marked snow and fresh
newspapers, and float untethered
in an upscale caffeinated sea.