Untitled (coffee shop)

I’m on my way home
Or maybe to an open mic at my favorite local coffee spot
I haven’t decided yet
When I pass by the corporate coffee shop on the corner
And through the glass
I see her
With another red head
And all I can say is
predictable

This is her second since I left
Her love notes that used to be left around the house
Now just thanking me for being her best friend
Another red headed hippie on the way in
Who am I to make a judgment on having a type
When my photography professor looked at my portrait project
With my ex, her, and who I left her for in a row
Chuckled and said “I can guess how you know them all.”

But tonight
         I’ll impulsively turn down that drive
Walk through the familiar front door
Where I used to visit as an excuse to drive past our nearly new house
         Before I even think of the 7 tasks I have waiting at home

I call this place the only good excuse to go somewhere without a drive through.

I call this I-moved-to-this-town-to-slow-down.

I call this finding myself.

I call this I-can’t-be-nervous-reading-my-poetry-here-because-I-painted-a-naked-self-portrait-that-debuted-right-here.

I call this my voice shaking in a microphone
         And I hate microphones
But this world is a microphone
So call this my microphone voice
And I’ll use it to scream
That everyone that breaks is already broken
Every gold filled jar
          A damaged priceless porcelain scar
Now for sale at the antique shop down the street
Where the man says he sells things because his house holds too much clutter
His life’s collection
On sale for a couple dollars and a smile
        Call this my wallet
Call this reduced-to-a-wall-in-my-retrospective.
I’ll file it between the old crumpled twenty
And the engagement ring,
Barely worn.

Call this my best poem yet.
Call this, I didn’t know you’d be home.