He would often take up
residence at the Cafe Intermezzo–
a palace where cadres of quixotic
Gen-Xers would spend their cigarette
money on coffee, and once-a-month
pre-atrophy middle-aged couples would
rove for over-indulgent desserts that
would make the lactose intolerant faint —
where he would wax poetic, Nay!, regale,
rhapsodize even, concerning the joys and
infernal simplicity of past lovers. The
in-depth palaver could last for hours and
be heard over all other conversation, over
even the hiss and clang and wheeze of the
industrial capuchino machines.
It was enough to set off a continual
vibration in my skull — right behind the ear,
in the mastoid, bitch of a headache —
making the task of bilking the wanna-be
coffee connoisseurs out of another
five-plus-tip next to impossible.
In the corner the violist played in
obscurity — thinking to put herself
through medical school on a talent
no one here appreciated, and tips that
never matched her skill — with a half smile,
as she imagined the spindle of thread and
the dull needle she would use to suture
the blowhard’s lips together.
For her Monday Melting, Shawna has selected a set of evil, wicked mean sadistic…umm, excuse me, ‘challenging’ words. Check them out and play along. FYI, there is a Cafe Intermezzo in Atlanta (and I am sure elsewhere), this is not that place, in the poem or pic.