Poem 6


I’m in the narrowest of Starbucks.
It reminds me of a caboose.
Patrons sit solo
facing each other,
except their heads
are crooked over laptops and i-phones:
clicks away from Scrabble Finder,
Live Oaks, New Orleans,
or the Worst Dressed list
at the Oscars.

A young woman
with a purple water bottle crosses
her legs, an Asian American
rests his left hand on his keyboard,
his pinkie has a gold ring.
Forever Asian
No one is with anyone here.
Two read novels.
A middle-aged woman cupping her chin
like a hard blend and a boy.

I ask the boy what he is reading.
Hunger Games, he says.
He’s not a boy, even though
his face is awash with blush.
Even though his eyebrows are infinity.
Nothing occurs to me to say.
I bite my brownie.
Don’t know how long it’s been since
I was hungry.

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