Carlos by José Vadi

TO wake up today the same man as yesterday mornings performed like carbon copies of yesterday, a dress rehearsal always on time. The child and mother who live two floors above run down the stairs, their pitter patter telling him in the first floor apartment that it is half-past seven in the morning. The dog that hunts the newly acquired cat of the upstairs neighbor scurries across their hardwood floor.
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Three Dutch exchange students are walking across the bridge.
A rabbi, his Torah clutched defiantly in his hands,
is walking across the bridge.
A teenager, his brain lodged inside the sounds his headphones make,
is walking across the bridge.

Arrange
3 lbs.
in a pyramid.

Not just
the words,

but also
the gaps
in-between.

It’s all
the same

ocean.

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“Yes, an espresso, please.”

“Double?”

“Sure.”

“Long?”

“Yup.”

“Okay, one espresso to go.”

“Ahh, no. It’s for here.”

“Here, sir?”