There is jazz up here and 	orange light. There is leather 
distressed wood 	 faces lit by blue white
strained coffee grinding, pouring, steaming and 
below, screaming
	a black voice
	in slurred percussion, 
low and rough	 broken	gritty
invading our still  

our hands clench around coffee cups
	some broad men perk up and
	incline toward heroism. 
But it is quiet. The disruption ushered out
	and the students of the city relax
	on their Kant, Foucault,
because there is no insanity here but
one man dirtied by streets.
There is coffee without agitation	orange light blue light
And		jazz.

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