Walk down Ritch Street, the sun has just come out.
Click, click, click
it's the espresso grinder at Cento, a coffee to be.
It echoes brick to brick.
Mister landlord lost a finger.
An aneurism!
An aneurism in his finger.
They had to cut it off.
"But it could have been my BRAIN!" he says,
still cheerful. Grinning his way to the end.
The ghost of Rock Hudson giggles on our fire escape
and in the vestigial shower stall on our rooftop.
This building was once his favorite bath house.
Ten thousand homosexuals hummed
inside these walls and now
it's us; clicking away at the keys of silver laptops.
Impermanent efforts.
The Internet won't last.
It's a cut flower.
All of our efforts
wilting as fast as they can.
But we still love flowers
and coffee, and the steps up to the office;
blue felt and brown wood,
midday sun,
the ghost of Rock Hudson.
Nice, I added a link to this to the job posting page as a poetic learn more about the studio :)