My book on loneliness was smeared,
here I am,
hoping for cleanliness, to strip away people,
that purge has been likened,
but a page has my fingerprint on it.
In his eagerness to kindness,
the barista stained the side of the cup,
my fingers have become less sensitive,
a mixture of winter and hand cleansers taking their toll,
heedless to wetness,
I smudge a page with Rwandan batch brew,
tamarind, smoke, and I can’t tell what else,
they’re good beans.
This page on loneliness,
now a coffee stained page,
has been made beautiful by the generosity of my barista,
today he sees me,
I’m forced out of loneliness.
It takes a total ingrate to continue to withdraw when an act of kindness is brought forward to them. I wanted to be alone, I drove far away just to read and drink a cup or two, but four cups later and my barista taught me why engaging in the world is a higher and more noble act than withdrawing from it. Facing your agony, going against your nature, perhaps reciprocating the kindness on to others, is a higher station.