Ah The Coffee House

Of those that come, I know some come to hear

to hold old songs, “their” songs they keep so dear.

Some come for the coffee and catch a tune.

Some come to talk softly, to commune

With a friend or mate to share the hour:

Students: A dark haired woman and lover,

Sit in the corner the whole night in study

sharing books and paper with their coffee.

Then two come in to meet as if by chance

As do the two matched women blonde, blanch

Each with a carefully manicured face

That seems oddly out of place

So upscale in down scale, in old downtown.

To chance meet with him, a face a frown,

Who pays no heed to music, it seems he paced;

The whole evening, and he seems oddly placed.

Here, there is a graceful marble table,

As if this tale were a simple fable

And the room is waiting it’s intended function

the marble table is the center of attention;

It easily serves five young and their convention

They spread out, fill the space configured

With their talk and iced cappuccinos delivered

In a tall glass, whipped cream and cinnamon aspersed

Their bright eyes flashing, (sometimes whispered)

Conversation; quick kisses and looks that offered;

Who were asked by our bard to enter,

When early on we watched them gather,

In the front seemingly quite undecided

About spending the evening crowded;

A decision it seems good for the bar,

But not so good for the lyrical bard.

On the other side of the room are two

Who remind me of the old child’s rhyme

of Jack Sprat who could eat no fat

and he is playing chess with a friend

whose wife (may I be so bold)

after drinking a fair amount of wine

called out for the bard to sing a line

Or more than one actually of Fogelberg

Ones, that it has been too long since I have heard.

Those great tunes and wonderful lines

That remind of old Colorado times.

Tonight seats fill as fast as they empty,

The center shifts from marble to where three

Couples, whose attention, a neon advertisement

Focus on singer and song, gives encouragement

Song after song give the bard his due

And reward, which I believe he knew

From old: this ancient bard, a soul

That is again new but with an old goal:

(He sings songs, recounts his other days)

He plays to a new crowd in ancient ways.

He plays again and plys his trade

In his way his spirit is fully paid.

William Killen, 1/1/98 Melbourne, Fl