Today we have another poem by Jake C.
Angel Alvin at the Coffeehouse
I. The Fellow
“I love it when you’re here,”
declares the barista,
as she serves the fellow
iced coffee. For him
the money’s worth always comes
as their fingers touch. His bridled brain
notes she’s too busy and too young
for him to reply in kind.
So, he smiles like he smiled
when she informed him they were out
of the toasted coconut cold brew. He’d said
“No problem. How about iced coffee? Black.”
Daily, they share the courtesy
of a simple bitter cup.
Settling onto a high chair
at the bar, his t-shirt stretches flat
his navel and shrouds
his man boobs in plain gray
backdrop for bookish tools:
a skinny pen; a fat notepad; a fatter
paperback copy of War and Peace.
A squeezed key fob in the pocket
between his pants and thigh
sets off the alarm
on his hand-me-down Buick outside.
It fails to set the neighborhood
in an uproar. Never does.
Hours pass. Shifts change.
A callused elbow braces
the palm buoying his chin.
Tufts of hair riot
his glaring crown. He smiles
before softly turning a page.
II. The Angel
For perfected Alvin,
coming through the veil
crystal sinking into clay.
Surfaces cheapen like
gold leaf transformed into
banana peel. Timeless crumbles
into ticktock. The Eternal Father calls
this condescension.
White horses and chariot leap from the clouds.
Alvin drives on, bloodless statue
of flesh and bone, into brackish
ponds of hipsterism.
Shoulders spanning a doorway
yoke hands and arms
which in mortality fashioned
meadows out of forests.
Impervious to progressive waves
of rank organics, brown and green,
his silken coat and silver cravat
incinerate would-be stains
spilling from a bitter cup.
Alvin’s forehead beams
more brilliant than a pulsar.
Napoleanic locks outflare
the Sun. His resurrected frame
invisible to all
but the sheepish fellow’s eyes
of understanding.
III. The Revelation
And it came to pass in that day
when the Angel did appear unto
the fellow, he proclaimed, “Thus
saith the Son of Man unto you,
O fellow . . . “
Alvin beholds the aging shame
of the gun-shy bachelor,
considers shirt and trousers
taut, fraying, and pallid,
also notes the earnest hand
annotating peaceful chapters
set in
bridal chambers and drawing rooms.
Alvin senses everything, even
the remnant aroma
of mother’s hand lotion
faint on a key fob.
He rubs his crystal eyes,
sighs and says to the fellow,
“At least be able to change a tire.”
And gathering in his light, Alvin
ascended to the royal courts of the
very Eternal Father.