They like to write where people are. They like a little noise with their silence. They want to look up and see something. They want to be surprised. They like the flow of bodies around them. Or perhaps it's just loneliness-- yes, that too. But more than that: they like the atmosphere a little smoke laden. They like aromas-- coffee, tobacco, meat frying. They like the sudden revelation as eyes look off or blur with tears looking across a table. Where others court eternity, they're in love with the moment in all its tawdriness and glory, that instant when truth appears out of nowhere--a truth as simple and as natural as people sitting together in a room over coffee in all their vulnerability and their humanness.
You can find this poem in Albert Huffstickler’s great book of poems — Why I Write in Coffee Houses and Diners.
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I bring my journal and a few interesting books to local cafes three or four times a week.
I walked into my first Cafe 50 years ago in 74. The Caffe Trieste in North Beach, San Francisco.
Feel like I’m there in that coffee house with the author. Simple poem yet deeply human.