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…Until They Rest in You

a poem

By Sean ByersPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 1 min read

A steaming hiss, the cafe’s blustering breath

competing with idle chatter and forgettable jazz,

reduced to a mummer’s virtuoso, drowned out,

like most things, in the ambient cacophony.

Impatient waiting habit, I check my phone.

A pattern of distraction.

----------------------------

“Order for…!” my name, just a word,

impersonal, anyone, hardly human. An order number,

a credit card, or, less convenient, cash.

Exact change is tedious. Who has time

to count pennies? Get with the times.

Noticeable irritation.

----------------------------

The cup is white, ordinary, on brand,

resting on its saucer. Perfunctory leafy swirl,

primarily edible art. I snap the obligatory

photo, “I was here, I drank this,

it looked nice.” Likes as modern consensus.

Empty affirmation.

----------------------------

A chair, available, nearest to natural light.

A redundant lamp completes the furniture mosaic,

industrial, bohemian, avant-garde, same as every other,

a living room pastiche, a pleasant façade,

an imitation. Everyone and nobody, contrived ubiquity.

Unmet expectation.

----------------------------

I see another, our usual time, late.

Large glasses, oversized sweater, grey, and Birkenstocks.

I like her eyes, bright, oblivious, engrossed

in pleasant facades, a phone screen, glowing,

scrolling, smiling, and liking distracted obligatory photos.

Interconnected isolation.

----------------------------

I stand, coffee unfinished, cold. The atmosphere

predictable, lacking genuine vitality, rinse and repeat.

I leave, and greet the restless night

with a sigh. The sidewalk, narrow, deserted,

strung together by lamplit pools, serene, stoic.

Mutual indifference.

----------------------------

My eyes lift, and soul, ascending, searches.

“Star light, star bright…” a familiar rhyme,

childish, stable. They watch, in perpetual remonstrance

overhead. The steeple’s jewel, crowning, shining, appealing

to squandered innocence, wishing on a melancholy

prayer. I wait, I listen. Hope replies

in silence. Peace.

----------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Check out some of my other work!

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The Experiment -- a horror story

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social commentarysurreal poetry

About the Creator

Sean Byers

Literary hobbyist who, in an act of sophomoric hubris, once dreamed of writing the great American novel. In the meantime, I am content to write for the pleasure of the craft and whoever finds my work of any interest.

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