by Justus Honda (’15)
From the Sarah Fontaine Unit

rumbling bustle in a café at 7 o’clock in the evening,
cardboard cups and porcelain mugs click and tap on marble
tables, drawling voices reverberate off dimly lit walls.
silent people filter through.
someone walks in with music under their hat and
oceansound in their pocket. everyone, it seems, has simple
unapparent secrets. out of sight a slightly damp coatpocket
carries a tiny conch, tarnishcolored with the cacophony of
the sea in its spiral inside.
watches tick voices mingle automobiles buzz and groan
newspapers and magazines rattle cellphones whine and in
the everpresent din in the pocket of an unnamed passerby is
a tarnishcolored conch, intricate mazework innards infused
with oceansound, projecting the memory of the turbulent
sea—
people breathe and cough. the espresso machine sighs.
coffee is acidic and bitter going down but is never
regretted. far off a wave crashes but no one hears.