Ding.
In the webby corner of this
bustling shop
ticks a tired golden clock.
And every hour
on the dot,
the staff refresh
each coffee pot.
Ding.
A woman wrapped in
a pink peacoat walks
up to the well-stocked
countertop.
“one croissant
and a latte, hot.”
She orders quick,
and omits small talk.
Ding.
A man clad
in a midnight suit,
a paisley tie,
and wingtiped shoes.
He waits his turn
while fidgeting,
then orders
“one dark roast coffee“.
He nods his thanks
and takes his change,
then tugs his cuffs
and struts away.
Ding.
Another hurried order.
Ding.
Another district day.
Ding.
The door revolving.
Ding.
The tired clock ticking.
Ding.
It’s gold face keeping
time while
we lose it.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
pm poetry 