Split backs grind down;
the carobs, cremes, golds, and caramels all
Tamped into the polished silver portafilter, scalds
to liquid fetish the grounds
appropriating its hearth, its heart and soul
for consumption, now poured
into a fragile white cup, the milky foam
slices into brown heart like a hot white
knife, metamorphose
genes of this espresso. They feel they’ve given the gift
privileged lactose, I watched this
barista take that portafilter, hands stained with
the browns of a moment ago, all
polished, shined his blotted, rouge mouth
his thin face opaque in reflected machine, as he dumped all
those leached grounds out, all
the richness; he stripped, discarded, the tale typical apathy:
one day was on top, they all
loved us, now no longer relevant, no longer in need,
into garbage, a tub somewhere, strung-out.
The exposed brick on wood, the minimalistic
architecture and the hip-hop of my youth trying to
escape this monument to gentrification, this shrine in their own
Image but where would they be without all of the browns grounded of this world?
The jams are consoling and only other presence of color, so I
asked it to stay.
I can feel their curiosity measuring my nose and
The crest of my lips, how’s and whys of my ashy elbows
with their eyes to say, “you are different. Maybe, you don’t
belong here.”
I count, one two three, don’t
count just
me.
Charles Snyder 