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The Whispers of a Dead ManThe soft whispers of a dead man's song,
Slipping through my fingers,
Tumbling silently to the ground,
And mixing with the pure earth,
Until the soil is tainted with a dead man's sins,
Seeping deep into the dirt,
Stemming from the roots which make a man,
The soft whispers of a dead man's song,
Stay there while the rest lies to rot,
A dead man is made one with the earth,
And one with the air we breath,
The screeching and howling of a man,
Moves swiftly through the wind,
The soft whisper of a dead man's song,
Sits quietly sighing with relief,
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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