les plus petites deces sont...

Slumped on the same cafe table
same booth
where you exchanged
"I love you" with her
amidst tears...

Where 6 months later
she told you she was pregnant.

The opposite bench is
                              empty
                                      now.

It's midday traffic,
Glancing at the zooming cars
greater in number than the stars
                                              -which
                                                 you
                                                cant
                                                even
                                                 see
                                             anymore-
you've been looming a still
since 3 am.

The waitress places your 15th cup of coffee
you've lost count after number
sixteen.

You bite your tongue to reassure yourself
that
      it
        is
          still
             there.

You sip the black soot whose warmth
is a most welcomed reminder
that
     you
          still
              exist.

But the coffee is cold and stale
and as you lift your eyes to complain you
for the first time realize
the beauty of this battered angel serving you
painted in an vile shade of
                                     blue
                                          and
                                              black.

She's just as miserable...

So you bury the complaint
and thank her for her service
and compliment her hair

She brims again
                     full
                        of
                         light.

Yeah,
these tiny little gestures sure make
                                                 life
                                                   more
                                                       bearable.

It's safe here...
you can even hear
T. Monk playing
that Monk was bloody good.


But outside?
                 It's
                     utter
                           chaos.

Herds of unanimated beaten bodies
returing from failed
                         jobs
                              they
                                   detest...

To homes they detest even moreso
full of further
                 beatings
                            and
                                 failures...

Some escape to
                      tiny bars
                                and
                                   tiny cafes
                                               like
                                               this
                                               one.

like you did.
But most
                              don’t.

Most of those who didn’t
now fly towards each other
like vultures on
                      angst
                            ridden
                                   corpses.

Most of those who didn't
now simply march onwards
                                      men
                                      women
                                      children
                                     EVERYONE

marching mechanical armies
                                        onwards
                                                  and
                                                     onwards
                                                              without
                                                                    rhythm.

Down the streets.
Across the alleys.
Past lives full of pain
                            misery
                                    and
                                        defeat

Marching without rhythm as if
                                          melody
                                                  never
                                                         existed

You cant even hear T. Monk anymore...
so you go to the roof
it's quieter there usually.

                                               =============

The next day newspapers are published as always
everyone still
                   marching
                               without
                                        rhythm
But..
one
is
missing

On page 15 bantams of words
by a 3rd rate journalist
(who cant even make ends meet)
mentions that a "John Doe" jumped off a building.
He sarcastically stated:

"He didn’t leave a suicide note!
How un cliche..."

No one threw an uproar...
no one mourned the lose...
cause no one even
                        read
                             the
                                 article.

and those who did just
                           turned
                                  the
                                     page.

To glance at the latest paparazzi pics
and the most recent celebrity scandles.

                                               =============

Back in the cafe...

the battered angel glances at the empty bench
near the window.
She asks the cashier where the guy was...
he never left that bench
                               from 3 am
                                            till the midday traffic.

He murmured nonchalantly:
                                      "He jumped off a building"

and he went back to watch the game...
complaining that the Lakers were playing badly
and how he'd lose his
                             50
                               dollar
                                       bet.

She barely managed to get there
slumped on the same coffee table
same booth...
where he told her how lovely her hair was
where she could've sworn she heard
Coltrane play.

His comment gave her strength
to go back to her home
full of beatings and failure
                                    to stand up
                                                   for herself

How she though before
going to sleep
                  victorious
                              for once
that she will sit down and talk to him
the next day and
invite him over for
dinner
and maybe give him her soul to care for
during the night


She can't even hear 'Trane anymore.
so she goes to the roof
it's quieter there usually.


She didn’t leave a note either.


How un cliche.