Keyboard in a Coffee Shop

Punctilious sounds from the first banks,
a white tipped river with money scored,
Jews hawk on benches and sailors press
clay, now cacophony black plastic-clad.
Light given to typists’ hands, dressed up
Excel spreadsheets with songs from old
mimicry made. Our right hand still there,
pointing commands like the popping twig,
as some wonder’s way our forest came,
making a sign of Green like day. That
basted sun of coffee shops, our saecle’s
stew, blasting mystery of the same sounds
of scribbles, tired exhaustion-trodden caps.

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