Life is a cafe' / Julie Wells


Life is a place
where you eat homemade
oatmeal cookies, drink
coffee, and smoke too much,
inhaling crumbs. Life

is a place where outdoor seating
is rusty because no-one sits inside.
Life is journals and favorite pens,

unknown music, little handwritten signs
on tip jars: Share the Love.
Life is cookies, in all their flavors and handcraftedness,
and the painted ones, shaped like animals.

Life is a place where you smoke too much,
talk too much, and laugh at the rain. Life is a place
where you light a cigarette next to a pregnant woman
and no-one says anything,
a place where mothers meet daughters

for lunch, a place where the cookies are homemade
and packaged in wrappings that bear the inscription:
Share the Love. Life is conversations about films
only half of us have seen. Life is a rusty table

holding a half-empty cappuccino
in a to-go cup that everyone is ashing in.
Life is the extra wide mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream

melting into it, cocoa shavings sprinkled on top, full to the brim,
sitting on a rusty table with a half-empty cappuccino
and a propped up handwritten sign: Share the Love.

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