hands clasped in front.
staring holes through the barista,
who conveniently never catches your eye.
waiting for coffee, waiting for traffic to subside,
waiting to be home.
waiting for the instant when it doesn't constantly feel
like the other shoe will drop.
listless, restless, mindless,
you constantly grasp for fictitious moments
that haven't quite arrived, and sadly never will.
future is elusive, always one step ahead,
slipping with a whisper, beckoning us
with better things.
so instead of being now―
instead of the soft jazz music,
the smell of coffees blended like a nasal symphony,
the taste of expectancy for your afternoon fix―
instead of any of this (or in spite of it all),
you fill your mind with jibber jabber,
like an annoying next door neighbor
who keeps you in the yard too long.
the chatter keeps you stagnant,
blocks you from feeling, from knowing, from being
exactly who you were designed to be.
shut up, wake up, smell the coffee!
and the cosmos will arrive at your feet
ready for you to put aside your guilty past,
and your worrisome future.
accept the the fullness of this holy instant,
and the peace and joy you crave
will fall upon you like waves.
the entire Universe is contained within you
as you pretend to wait for a latte,
standing. hands clasped in front.