Coffeeshop Journaling
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The Girl at the Yellow Table
The girl sitting at the yellow table
in sunlight in the coffee shop
is drinking iced coffee
eating pastry with a fork.
She is looking at her phone
while she eats and sips.
A thick journal with a deep red cover,
leather like, sits next to a paperback book.
I can’t see the title.
To her right is a colorful spiral bound notebook.
Like me she has several books.
Her gray backpack
sits in a yellow chair.
She’s wearing black Ecco sandals,
pale blue blue jeans.
Her printed top gathered under her breast
has a scoop neckline.
Brown glasses
her hair pulled back in a ponytail
held with a gray scrunchy
her complexion is soft and smooth.
A diamond engagement ring sparkles
on her left hand.
I write.
The girl sitting in the yellow chair has walked out carrying her phone
leaving books and pastries on the table.
Through the glass window I see her
pass out of view and then return
opens the leather like journal
and begins to write.
She reminds me of me
only
I walk like an old woman.
With clear skin soft and pristine
she has her whole life ahead of her.
Unlike the woman in the courtroom earlier.
Several felonies
6 trips to the ER after suicide attempts
ruddy complexion
streaked bleached hair
strong jaw.
She could have once been
the girl at the yellow table
in the coffee shop writing
before the spiral began.
Not up.
Down
into the maya of matter impossible to contain.
The judge in the high seat
with a fake soft concerned voice
cannot understand why she
cannot get it together.
She might have one day been holy and pure before the spiral.
Down.
The girl sitting in the yellow chair
Is gone
The table empty
No lovely journals or paperback.
Gone
A vision held for a moment.
I write
A woman now sits in the sunlight.
She is older
her skin rough.
No pristine of youth.
Her body thicker.
She wears a fuchsia hoodie
her jeans well worn.
There are no soft journals.
She wears black tennis shoes
Types on a black laptop.
Her cell phone
coffee cup
briefcase
black.
Sunglasses perched on her hair pulled back, black.
She types with determined fingers.
Her pen, red and black, sits on the yellow table
high contrast.
She too reminds me of me
in the coffee shop drinking latte
writing.
Laverne Zabielski
