Drip, drip, drip.
The lazy drops descend on the metal roof of the Cafe. A fluorescent sign flickers, reminding the uncaring world of the hole-in-the-wall's quiet existence. Quiet, at least, until it happened. IT, happened...
Poets, small, tall, great and lesser, gather at the Cafe each Saturday evening; the remnant of what once was a thriving, bustling restaurant. Some say it was the introduction of anything other than bland American food; others, that one waiter who kept mixing up orders and pouring mustard in people's cappucinos. The true doubters argue that it was the introduction of "Saturday Night Poetry Readings", but nobody really believes them. Whatever the cause, almost all faithful customers vanished...
Except for the poets. And that's not IT, either.
As on every Saturday night, the Faithful (as they deemed themselves) were there; contemplating. Thinking. Pondering. Dreaming. Occasionally, strokes of genius or epiphanies will hit, and poets will shout triumphantly their masterpieces.
"O, that I might be
Free from all that inhibits,
A rose unhindered"
"Where is the happiness?
I once
Had much. Now it's
Gone.
The whirlpool of
Desire is
Now the cause
Of my mire, now
A trickle. A Living Needle
In the haystack of
Darkness and Death. Can
I find it
Again?"
"I've found a rhyme for orange!"
"THE COFFEE'S GONE!!!!"
Wait. The poets turned slowly to the source of the voice; a frightened, hysterical waiter with braces and disheveled hair.
"It's gone! All of it! The Cappuccinos, the Frappucinos, the Lattes, the Java...THE COFFEE! All we have left is tea! Decaf tea!"
"It can't be gone!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!"
"What'll we do? How will we get our papers turned in? How will we ever compose poetry again?"
Silence. The full, black, terrible depth of their predicament strikes.
Silence. A pen drops and crashes on the unswept concrete floor.
Silence.
Slowly, he rises. One of the Faithful rises, a student ready to face the future. His deep, mournful voice resounds sorrowfully across the room.
"Coffee would be stronger than
The weak Tea that
Surrounds
My heart.
A Cappuccino warmer and
More empowering to my
Wretched soul.
O, alas;
The icy Earl Grey has
Swallowed whole
The sweet Caramel Latte
Of my Former self.
O, alas, the despair of
Decaf has emptied me
Strangled me
Drowned me.
Until I am nothing,
Nothing but a shell.
Shell of a coffee bean.
Husk of a coffee bean.
The cold, black bleak broken barren
Husk
Of
A
Bean."
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