untold Canterbury Tales

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untold Canterbury Tales

He died before his quill could scratch       
         the man 
with veiny legs, his shorts hitched up above 
the waist with a thrift-store braided belt, scanning 
the menu like he doesn’t already know 
he wants the avocado toast, no crust. 

With him they laid to rest
               the barista’s tale, 
a yarn of caffeine loves that never last
the afternoon, of steamy nights with girls 
he’ll never meet, scanning across the counter
wishing he were a stirring stick.
He took 
with him the story of the meter enforcer, 
a moral sketch about power trips and sleek 
grey Teslas with drivers who clearly cannot read—
or maybe it was a pithy quip about 
that pair of cargo shorts. 

   He left me free 
to write them for my own.
I’m lucky that 
they chose to rest from pilgrimage at Starbucks, 
sipping their mocha frappuccinos.

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