There’s a coffee shop on 14th street
where he takes his breaks.
The only one who seems to know him
is the Barista, who thinks his name is
double soy latte with a caramel twist.
Black suited like a Tarantino Villain,
he sits in a booth by the shop window
where he can be just like everybody else,
shuffling down the street outside.
He looks over Playbill, and sighs.
He considers taking in a show or
a set at the Bluenote; his tastes run more
torch song than fusion these days.
People coming and going, never notice him.
It can’t last, this imperceptible calm.
He drains his cup, tips the Barista,
steps outside onto the street.
There’s a sudden uptick in violence.
Two men’s accidental collision
flares up into a fist fight, members
of the eighth street kings shoot up
the pool hall that the Lowboys call home.
On the other side of the globe,
an insignificant border skirmish,
erupts into the next brushfire war.