Starbucks on 67th St.

A recreation of self-absorption
First experienced in a Hopper painting.
Someone added the softer lighting and computers,
Making the night scene less desolate.

No one defies the “no smoking” rule
Nor is there a sense of impending drama.
The place , like a black and white photo
Feels sterile.

10 people, one to each small round table.
Most have a lit computer screen,
Suggesting that they are terribly busy
Or hoping to feel that way

People are not draining their cardboard cups
In advance of the inevitable “lights out”.
Those cups are the props that allow this place
To serve as a metaphor for some half forgotten movie scene,
In which the protagonist ponders his existence.

Perhaps I project the sense of fear
Enveloping the coffee shop. As though,
These people, seeking assurances that
This place will keep the demons
From insinuating their presence,
Will permit time to stand fixed,
And “closing time” deferred forever.