“nothing like having your thorax split open to make you feel bad”

I heard it from the 'barista' here,
but I don't like that word because
it makes me think of Starbucks.
This is not a Starbucks.
The oversized Christmas lights in the windows
are not a seasonal decoration.
The counter is cluttered with local artists' gaudy jewelery
and the business cards of everyone who ever asked.
The wide opening to the kitchen—much more than a door—
yawns unapologetically right behind the counter.
Everything fits together like a jigsaw puzzle,
regular customers as comfortable as in their own living room,
mismatched furniture, including a bright orange couch with frayed armrests,
and every knick-knack with any kind of reference to coffee you can imagine.
Yes. Every one.
Everything exhales a wonderful fragrance of cliché and home,
swirling in concentric air-currents around the holy of holies,
the bathroom. A glass box in the sky, walls baby blue
with vaporous wisps of white twirling round.
There's even a bright green beanstalk growing out of the floor.
Everything perfect.
I close my eyes, fall through the floor
into God.