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Everyone in Seattle is a writer.
The passive aggressive nature of the weather
in the Pacific Northwest lends itself well
as a backdrop to this particular profession.
The sporadic rays of warm sun give slivers of hope–
overcast is normal (and preferred), as it inspires
depression and dancing with alcoholism
(we’re all trying to be Hemmingway, anyway.)
Every coffeeshop an office that can be rented
for pennies on the hour. Each piece of latte art
a dictation taken and formed by the barista who really should be
somewhere else, really should be writing
in a studio in Capitol Hill, shared with
her cat named Lolita or Hester.
Instead, she is steaming milk for other writers:
grinding, dousing, furiously tamping the
finely ground espresso into the portafilter,
letting out her frustration for the poems
that remain unwritten, but not too much,
because espresso is temperamental–
hot waters shoots through and rich,
syrupy shots flow forth like nectar–
the feathered latte art a poem in and of itself
a wordless poem
that stands alone
ephemeral, but for
the hipster who
captures it with Instagram
slaps on a filter, posts,
and goes back to their
writing
in
S
e
a
t
t
l
e.

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