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Quarry echoesThe white-faced chapel where once there knelt
the faithful, slate-grey quarrying Celt
Paint pots stand as modern altar
a subtle veneer as the ruins falter
But strewn hymn and verse still echo in the fields
as the silence to the blasts meekly yield
Once i stood all boots and cloth
hands in pockets, now flies a moth
Remember where i sat on pews
gathered strength from collective muse
Now all that remains, you can see
scattered fragments that once were we
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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