The Soul of Coffee


Thursday morning, Boetger knew astrophysics.
He shot stars from his Timcup and pontificated.

Loudly, loudly, loudly.

The lord of Waterloo knew the woman who died
and the faux-husband who cried as he purchased
chicken and Bavarian sausage at Saturday market.

The duke of King Street is the street person who
sleeps in the ATM booth in Frederick Street Plaza
and picks used cigarettes out of Queen Street rain.

There’s a half-hour each weekend morning,
when words run like wine into the glasses
of the Tim Horton’s crowd on their plastic chairs.

We all click our minds three times, mutter, ‘There’s
no place like fantasy’. Then the political murders begin.

Loudly, loudly, loudly.