Buck-Fifty Coffee

On the floor in a coffeehouse.
Lacquered tables rub banquet chairs.
Black dashiki on my back. Not a speck of dust.
Clean white cups. Tiny handles, sipping cups. Coffee in the coffeehouse.
Healthy people, smelling of health insurance. No smoke here.

Acoustic guitar man, flute woman, silver flute, but gold rings truer.
Play a medley of Beatles tunes. Sweet.
Like Muzak. Stop, stop, stop.
This elevator. Find the open door button and get off.
"In case of fire do not use elevator."

It stopped. Door opened, ringing like a register.
2nd floor: Puff the Magic Dragon.
3rd floor: I see John B. hoisting up his sail.
See how the main sail sets? Yeah, I see the setting sail, the setting sun.
The sun to set over a generation.

Money's hidden here.
Modest hair and clothes.
Bought from an L.L. Bean Catalogue.
Close-cropped beards. Rugged plaid flannel.
Sharply pressed red and black.

Woman reads: vegetable garden in a town of expensive grass.
Can you feel the starched collar on your neck?
Light beard on stage. Baseball cap. Filled the generation gap.
Ginsbergesque: "Politician's rosy piss/Not good enough for you."
Man says: "How 'bout that, we can still instill good values!"

Sitting on the floor, black dashiki on my back.
Pump-piercing pain. A woman's sharp-toed shoe in my back.
"hey...Hey...HEY! Would you be more comfortable with your boot on my neck?"
She's calm, looking at the stage. Yeah, I was thinking, not saying, that one.
Think-talk turning: "Do you often go dancing on the backs of the bruised?"
"I hear God Mammon doesn't choose."
"But from the floor here, honey, you sure look chosen to me."