An Opening

A new cafe<br />
white laminate, glass and stainless steel<br />
long clean lines held up by<br />
legs of oak or timber.<br />
So hipster her design sensibilities<br />
laugh mockingly at any suggestions that she began<br />
at Ikea<br />
even though subconsciously her birthplace<br />
might have smelt of Swedish meatballs.
Opulent cakes sit in large glass bells<br />
frosting mixed with orange zest<br />
tarts with maple and bacon<br />
In the back a giant mechanical workhorse<br />
drips life-giving caffeine into tiny cups<br />
extracted from the jet-lag of beans flown<br />
halfway round the world.
Amidst the polite chatter of the sitting crowd<br />
the silent tapping of manicured fingernails on Kindles<br />
the owner stands<br />
tired but a good tired<br />
proud of a dream realised<br />
trying to ignore the nagging worry<br />
of being prematurely awakened.
I mourn for the dream whose ashes<br />
upon which this new cafe stands:<br />
A bakery nondescript<br />
with surfaces that despite best efforts<br />
were slightly greasy<br />
stained with having seen years<br />
turn into decades<br />
No fuss white bread by the loaf<br />
baked fresh here and<br />
the only nod to the realities<br />
of an outside world<br />
was the floss-covered bun in the corner.
As the years pass<br />
will hipster become unintentionally retro too<br />
and dreams of staying small, cozy and intimate<br />
give way to fabricated franchised relationships,<br />
killed by rent &mdash;<br />
the relentless current that sinks all boats<br />
to shore its own insatiable corporate greed.<br />
And the only constant in our lives becomes<br />
the invisible hand that milks our dreams.

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