The streets seem deserted
Early morning
Alone and sitting
Wooden table near a large glass window
Steamy trails of smoke rise up
Old warm tone brick – stone church
Mesmerizing craftsmanship
Oblong stones set in tight patterns
Gruff men slathered mortar then like pastry chefs and frosting
Immaculate epicurean delights
Edifices rich in history and religious fight

Religion could be beautiful
Instead it divides people and makes war

Christmas eve
Yellow plastic bags cover parking meters
Freebies a la the city
Spend your coins on commerce instead

Little snow
It’s a brown, yellow and green Christmas
Nestled in the valley below the mighty Wasatch

The café is still
An old man sits alone on the couch reading
Brown cardigan sweater
Ancient newspaper holding techniques
Spreads the pulpy mass like wings
Reading art
Craft

Cute blonde girl at the counter — shy
An espresso master
The milk perfectly warm
Sans the scorched smell of a rookie barista error
One cannot justify fucked up coffee
There is no dada version of hot bean water
Burned is burned
This is not
This is art in my cup

Immaculate chalk drawing behind the counter
It’s the 50s or 60s
Same area of town
Old brick buildings appear vibrant
A theater a few doors down
The café wasn’t even a thought in time yet

It’s crystal clear outside
The blue sky is rich and deep like an inverted ocean
The sun is a regular here
Salty City
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