java birds

sunday morning java queen
     (first in line at sleepy sugar-eyed
            espresso aisle) is camping
bare wiggly-toed            cyberlinked
beneath lonesome wetnose
             windowpane.
she looks out. what's to see?
       just
               a jade smear
               (douglas fir & sitka pine)
               in softgel focus.
beyond her adzed birch bark silhouette
        i catch sight of a two-lane asphalt
        totem trail. so
        i split infinities.
her rucksack is full of essential
        lord's day stuff (kropotkin's
        "mutual aid, or, maybe julia
                kristeva & sylvia plath)
        in case of sudden apocalypse.
we share this vigil      isolated
                                   within our laptop
                                   realms.
as the mill wheel of café life
          begins to hum
          with the hypertension
          of henry adam's dynamo
she rises for a refill & hiphugger jeans
          swish
                      across the blond
                      hardwood floor
          like a paisley dream.
          belly-bold tank-top
          rides up & a tummy jewel winks
          coded semaphore
                       to me alone
          in the florescent wendigo
          ghostlight.
arms like cinnamon sticks
          flex knotty little biceps,
          girded with snake tattoos--
her hair (jet angel pasta) shifts
         perpetually
         in her wake.
         she hesitates. turns. takes note
         of me.
                     a blackberry gaze
                     whispers an ancient
                     riddle.
      hello, old man,
      why have you followed me
                      through the ages?