portion of the artwork for Justin Long-Moton's poetry
Justin Long-Moton

1 Grande Java Chip Frappuccino extra shot of espresso
Topped with whipped cream, hold the fudge

Spiraled from the lips of the man in the trench coat,
tapping his fingers against the countertop suggesting his
car is double parked outside in the gleaming sun. I looked
on from the back of this chic café, with a cup of steaming
hot cocoa—I let sit to avoid the tongue’s misery—my laptop
and thoughts of doing this here for a living. My future
aglow in the knuckles of these lyric soothsayers,
in their stained teeth, ink blots, I imagine their bodies
writing all that I am. I say to myself I’m here too, so I begin
typing, trying to keep up with who I aspire to be, elevator
music calming, hovers loosely like an untamed strand of
smoke. I got “flow” now, writing poems about a boy who
sees his work in newspapers, national journals, pressed
against the ocean. He’s sitting at a table, shoulders
squared, works of art gloating all around him, sipping a
hot cup of java (graduated from the small stuff). With a
scorched mouth, thumbing through pages of mistakes,
how he lost himself—when the sharp shatter of a coffee
mug meeting ceramic tiles causes me to lose my train
of thought, I notice the guy in the trench coat, face sour.

Excuse me, ma’am, this isn’t what I ordered.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 36 | Spring 2012