out shined

I claimed my latte
thanked the barista
and “‘scuse me”‘d
past two young mothers
to get to
my favorite table

after setting
my space correct
I geared up for that first
palette scalding sip
and heard one mom ask
“what do you think
they are talking about?”

I couldn’t
help but look
in the direction
of the kids,
thinking
there was a lot more
going on here than just
your typical pedestrian
drool and babble

their eyes never
left each other,
conversation, as it were,
rising and falling,
punctuated by laughter,
and long silences,
like a couple of retired friends
comparing lifetimes
in the trenches
and how to make good
with what they had left

so there they were, I imagined

one, going on
about his stint
as a pre-somethingness
translator of trances,
determining
the weight
of invisibility

the other, colorfully
describing her time
as collator
of deep space rhythm –
which she demonstrated
with fervent slaps
on the tray of her high chair
knowing that, soon,
they both would forget them
again for while

I took that sip,
got out my pen
reached for a napkin,

and tried to come to grips
with the fact that these two
were way
more interesting
than I was or
was my position
as re-arranger of cafe
tabletops and notator
of the absurd

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead