Tonight They Drink

By Rory Leonard

The streets are quiet now, alone. A soft wind kicks a lone wrapper around, like a kid playing soccer with a stone: kicking and chasing it across the ground.

He is not seen.

The caffeine bounces inside his mind, a businessman trying to pass the time. Hoping to be found or to find his place in time and space, reason and rhyme.

He is not seen.

The fluorescents hum a simple song, a robotic hymn of mystery. The coffee machines play along, harmonizing in unity.

They are not heard.

Separated by a sheet of glass, their conversation can not be discerned. Perhaps a great question will they ask. The watered-down coffee no longer burns.

They are not heard.

Now the lunch counter is bare, with not a single trace remaining of the people sitting there, in that very place.

It is not felt.

But still, they sit and talk and think about their pain and sorrow. Change the world later, tonight they drink espresso into tomorrow.

They are not felt.