The Coffee Shop, Union Square

A place that has been there forever,
in New York terms,
but that for whatever reason, never gone in,
until yesterday -
it must've been the desire to sit and eat.
 
Upon our entrance,
a gruff-looking man on a stool sang Brazilian tunes,
to a distracted clientele and poor acoustics.
These are new times to me,
where people talk to each other,
and text to others in ether land.
 
Hey, pay attention to me,
I'm talking to you,
and would like this conversation to be more,
than a single-serve tennis volley.
 
I was drawn into the large, freshly inked, tattoo
of the young waitress on her left arm,
HOME SICK.
 
Was she really home sick or sick of home?
Why did she leave home? From where?
Why can't she go back? Too far? No one home?
I was also drawn into other tattoos
right above her right knee,
which I couldn't read fast enough
without getting my eyes caught.
 
The waitress's printed name on the receipt
read "Sunny".
Was she? Is she? Will she ever be sunny?

I kept thinking of how much
I was drawn into her tattoo.