It is there, and I am here.

It is there, and I am here.

Getting from here to there is my only thought, my only hope, my salvation.  I've gotten close enough to smell what they offer twice, the pungent aroma of freshly ground French Roast spilling onto Wickenden Street, quickening the pace of passers-by, putting a skip in the pace of the elderly, filling children with laughter and boosting the spirits of their overburdened caretakers.

Salvation was within my grasp, but the radio had other plans. Twice redemption was near, and twice I was called away.  The further I traveled from the source, the further into despair I descended.

"It's just a coffee, man! Snap out of it!" my partner shouted, trying to break me from my lethargy.

"You have never experienced the Cafe Tobe'." I said, the weight of my head too much to hold as it fell forward continually, then snapped back.

There is such a thing as this, "just a coffee" he speaks of. What I seek is anything but. Twelve ounces of steaming hot Dark Roast enhanced with a double shot of Italian Espresso, consciousness in a cup for a weary soul is most definitely not, 'just a cup of coffee.'

"Rescue 5, Respond to 1 Kennedy Plaza for a man down."

Somehow, some way, I will make it back. I watch the Coffee Exchange fade from view from my rear view mirror as we change direction and cross the Point Street Bridge, toward the plaza.

It is there, and I am here.


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Michael Morse

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June 2012
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