Allen Ginsberg goes up to the counter and says, “Coffee. God damn it, coffee.”
The drink will cost three dollars and twentyeight cents and there is no more cream left in the jug.
He walks out under the trees and there is a guitarist in the street playing a tune in the moonlight.
Ginsberg is young and we are young and the streetlights flicker and go out and the supermarket down the street has no more peaches.
It is summer in California and the lukewarm breast of midnight has just started
moving down the street.
Ginsberg looks up and breathes in the heavy air and smiles the deep smile of memory and
baristas who never loved us and the drops of cream left on the counter.
Walt Whitman is dead.The coffee is cold.
(Source: literarystarbucks, via theworldwasquiet)
Posted 6 years ago and has 3,628 notes