Of all the life we’ve lived
And all the time
Which passed between
Some doors are plain
Some are ornate
Some doors are simple
Some technically replete
Some doors are an invitation
Some are a barricade
Some doors are a celebration
Some are made to be despised
Some doors lead to adventure
Some lead to retreat
Some doors reveal a treasure
Some are thought to hide a treat
Some doors are made of steel
Some only of the mind
Some doors are eternal
Some have so little time
One door enclosed your heart
The door that stands before me
A door I’d love to open
This door without a key
Can’t afford an expresso machine of my own
Just the bodum I picked up at the grocery
The day I also found yeast
Yeast!
Rarer than toilet paper
Rarer than a kiss for a single bloke like me
In this freakin’ pandemic
Anyway, the bodum
If you double the usual amount of grounds
I suppose it’s OK
If you got really good beans
Real dark, the Tanzanian is the best
Ground to the perfect chunkiness
But it ain’t nuthin’ like Frank’s americano
I suppose even if I had an expresso machine
It still wouldn’t be nuthin’ like Frank’s
I dunno
The guy’s magic
And a good guy too
We get on
I’ve followed him around for a while
His fourth cafe in five years
“I get bored if I stay in one place too long”
He told me once
So anyways
I hear the cafe’s opened up again
An’ I rush right out there
I see through the glass
Frank’s on today
Sweet!
I also see inside there’s a bit of a queue
And the tables and chairs are all set out
Lined up tickety-boo
Sparse and empty
Like a display in an upscale furniture store
Every time I walk in here
I get the same tingly feeling up my spine
Heat on the back of my neck
That cringe you get
When you feel like you’re in the wrong place
I like Frank’s last cafe better than this one
It has armchairs and a fireplace
All warm and cozy
Like a family room
I’d hang there for hours
Chattin’ up regulars and whoever
This one’s all artsy as fuck
Greys and blacks
Angular and hard
Not the kinda place you go to hang
I almost always take my java togo
I got no reason to hang
People come here to confer with clients
Whine to their colleagues
About their stock market woes
Suit and tie designer shit
“Aesthetics”
Frank told me once
“Looks over comfort”
“Image over presence”
Ass thet icks
Fuck that shit
Slowly
We learned new ways
To have meaning
Purpose
New ways to love
And be loved
In return
These sensations of the eye
Become meaning in my mind
And beauty in my being
The strands seek the strength
Of numbers
Of diverse fibre
The twist that binds
Knotted to the cleat
That is love
That is compassion
That is empathy
But ever tested
By the pull of anger
Sheared by fear
Sundered by hate
But always
Knit together again
All strands in the rope