I find Karl Marx at Starbucks, currant scone in hand, sitting by the window. Maybe at a Dunkin’ Donuts or Waffle House. But Starbucks? Mars must be ascending in Gemini. My legs ache from squats at Gold’s Gym. First night back, hamstrings pulverized. So, Karl, that really you? Beard totally white. Eyes bluer than I remember from Economics. Mind if I sit? With his boot, he pushes out the other chair, licks a finger and wipes the plate spotless. Looking up at me, he grins.
Boom! Bags of Komodo Dragon, Sun Dried Ethiopian and Decaf House Blend go to ground, bursting on the tile floor. Masses of roasted beans bury the feet of guys drinking Ethos water and women sipping vente lattes. Spewing out of the register, blank receipts. The espresso machine splits open and steam rises from Mount St. Helens. Karl and I sit frozen: me from murdered haunches and he waiting to tell someone, I told you so.
Boom! Bags of Komodo Dragon, Sun Dried Ethiopian and Decaf House Blend go to ground, bursting on the tile floor. Masses of roasted beans bury the feet of guys drinking Ethos water and women sipping vente lattes. Spewing out of the register, blank receipts. The espresso machine splits open and steam rises from Mount St. Helens. Karl and I sit frozen: me from murdered haunches and he waiting to tell someone, I told you so.
Chella Courington holds a Doctorate in Literature from the University of South Carolina and will complete an MFA in Poetry from New England College in July. Her recent poetry appears in Not A Muse, wicked alice, The Griffin and Iguana Review. With a faint heart, she reads The New York Times and watches nightly news.
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