Coffee Shop and John Donne

The thick smell of sweet coffee hangs thick in my nose,
the book's binding in my hand feels warm and smooth -
worn from years of reading and from being held for long hours,
it isn't the first time I've done this -
spent hours in a coffee shop just reading ,
waiting for my ride while reading over the poets of the past -
thinking seriously of what they have said,
decyphering,
speculating -
learning.

I have my own coffee in my hand -
the warm vanilla notes making my tight throat feel relief.
A small voice asks what I'm reading, but I barely hear -
my mind lost in the words of John Donne.
"Hmm...?"
Her bright blue eyes look at me curiously,
the pale skin creased in lines of wonder -
her hand is reaching for my book.
"John Donne," I answer her,
my mind not really leaving the words I'm reading.

She scampers off quickly as her mother rises to leave -
giving her a frown and telling her not to bother me.
Well... it wasn't like I minded.
It only takes a moment, though, until my mind is lost in the maze -
cheered on by the smell of coffee,
and the sounds of the baristas working on another drink.

I could keep going for hours - devouring poem after poem,
but I hear my phone ringing, rudely pulling me from my book -
leaving John Donne's poems unfinished,
and my mind waiting for the words to continue -
as though on pause.