Smoke Like Pissarro

My favorite coffee shop on the planet

Is tucked into a closeted, natural oasis

Of many types and sizes of trees

That in winter shed their leafy disguise.

A tapered, seasoned building,

an art gallery with an antique past,

shelters the coffee salon from the main drag.

A circular, crunchy gravel path

reveals parking options

to those seeking a feast

for the eyes or the tongue.

Maybe both.

(Visitors with a carbo craving

might also frequent a nearby,

drive-thru biscuit endeavor,

a locally owned legend, still in its prime.)

Late one mild, December afternoon

a sharpening angle of fading light

finds a java enthusiast in his early twenties,

who sports a brownish gold shirt,

dark copper pants, matching boots,

a rodeo-style silver belt,

and a mouth-dangling cigarette

that gradually loses its length;

his perky fingers

tapping the face of a phone.

After a few moments, he tosses the butt

of his Pall Mall (maybe a Marlboro)

onto the crushed rocks; then chooses his right boot

to extinguish the flame, or so he thinks,

and heads back toward his table —

one of many that surround a weather beaten

structure that suggests a European location,

preferably a scenic spot renown

for its alchemy when

marrying chocolate and caffeine.

The angle of light shifts slightly again;

a gentle breeze resumes, reminding

those outdoors it is, after all, still winter.

The almost crushed cigarette

finds enthusiasm from that casual gust,

and soon a vapor trail

three inches high and many yards long,

spirals with the breeze,

its curling smoke like Pissarro.