Coffee is running, burning black holes in my head
I brew white clouds from conversations at the bar
one is resentfully complaining, the other is reading a newspaper
while putting sugar cubes in his pocket
Air bubbles are hard to swallow for Bernard
who let's himself be called The Time
his whirling grey hair follows him somewhat behind
Next to me sits a girl who is never herself
becoming herself in a hand-mirror
she is a nervous rush hour, talking in klaxon
her trembling left leg is keeping us alive
in return we listen to her blare
It's starting to sound more like speech as time goes by
drowning your sorrows in a Pumpkin Spice latte is hard
