GLASS BOX

Inside a coffee shop

resembling a glass box

I listen to dead words

one hundred percent sarcasm

reflecting from the glass the echo, echo, echo.

The glass windows sweating small drips,

looked opaque from the rain in April

while the drops hit the windows as fast as a Flamenco dance.

The scent of the coffee freshly ground

and steam from the espresso machine

slowly surrounds my nose,

while the heartburn threatens me,

as a reminder that today

I have abused the Mayan elixir.