THE HIDDEN TRACK

The following passages are dedicated to Leopold, to the vernacular, to certain evil women (you know who you are), to certain wonderful people(they know who they are), to soft afternoons and quiet Sunday evenings, to Fall and seeing your breath for the first time since Spring, and to Isabelle Ya Feng ... a soul slipped by like two ships passing in the still, moonlit sea.
-- Abraham Ahmed, the Surfing Beatnik



Loyalty from a South American Town...

It is always astounding negotiating a cup's hot rim to reward myself with the Colombian-born bean nectar found within.

I enjoy it immensely and thrill at the first sip.

“A creation of great motivation coffee is” I say to the air matter-of-factly as I tilt the paper cup towards me and look inside. I swirl it around with the skill of a sommelier and raise it to my lips. I sip, passing the fluid from one check to another and back again to arrest the fully body of the roasted beans. Even if I fumble the ratio of creamer-to-coffee, the color straying far from my usual beige:

“…Oh yes, I remember you from yesterday morning.”

Cats (at times),
Cars (most times),
Women (all times):
Let downs.

Coffee:
Consistent and unfailing
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