Poetry / Aroma of Wealth

Billy was a homeless soul;
well, half-way near it.
Grey painted whatever strings
fell from his top;
His duds: they’ve seen it;
faded colors of the streets he wore.
As he stood outside this busy coffee store,
Billy watched the Dick’s and Sally’s
Come and Go, holding their half-naked mermaid
against their middle-class lips, only
He wished to taste the calories going to that
little, blond cutie’s | in the window| hips.

Sippin’ on homemade hobo wine,
{whatever that is}
Billy would tell tales of life and liberty,
As he wore his grandfather’s Statue of Liberty tie
’round his forehead.
His nose longed for each morning,
for he would stand near the door;
And take a big whiff from the aroma inside.
His ears would giggle as the baristas grinded
the fresh beans for the day.
Billy’s eyes watered when he saw the first customer,
ordering his Caramel Macchiato or Pomegranate Peach Frappuccino.

His tongue danced when that Yippee took the first hit.
Today was the day Billy got his;
He nickel and dime all he could,
and scraped the remaining copper from his black hood.
Walking in the coffee shop from a long day of beg,
his senses were mesmerize by all that was around his head
Paintings, fusion jazz, and humans -- Oh, My!
Was it a flashback to the 60s and 70s
of which a bad acid trip came to mind? Why
were so many people joyful, high?
The aroma was the bait at the end of the barista’s hook,
which lured poor Billy, who flipped and flopped his
way through the sea of humanity, to the counter.

“One of them Cappuccino things, madam,” Billy said.
He watched attentively as the petite woman,
with blue hues streaking through her short blond locks and skull tats
climbing up her anorexic limbs, did her duty.
The water streamed as the milk hissed in the distance.
Before long the love-making of coffee was done.
And this Goth-like lady gave birth to this caffeinated concoction,
leaving a skin-milk foam rose in its center.
“$3.40, sir,” She said with a smile.
“3.40?”
“Yes, sir -- $3.40.”
“Damn, that’s high for a cup of joe!”
“It’s not just any kind of joe, sir.”
“Let me see here,” Billy said, as he pulled out his plastic bag filled with nickels, dimes, and pennies. “5, 10. . . 50. . . $1.00. . . $1.65. . ..”
“Sirrrr,” the nose ring wearing server asserted.
“Shit, I’m 40 cents short.”
“Then you don’t get the drink,” She declared.
“Well, what can I buy for $3?” Billy asked.
“Nada,” She sighed and pointed to the water fountain near the restroom.
“That’s bullsh*t!” Billy yelled as he turned back to the entrance.

Swimming back through the sea of posers,
he could feel the eyes and finger tips of
the Barracudas on his back. Billy was gasping for his former life,
one outside these walls.
Billy wondered as he jumped back into the fish bowl he called his world:
“What’s wrong with this picture? A cup of coffee is $3.40
and pint of cheap Rye whiskey is much less. I should’ve became
an alcoholic like Leroy down on 31st street. Too bad for me,
I’m hooked on Starbucks. Man, they’re burning my pockets.
Tomorrow I’ll have to hustle twice as hard to afford a cup by
this weekend. Huh, coffee priceless? No, pricey”

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