I’m trying to read the last poem in this book

I’m trying
to read the last poem
in this book

and the coffee shop
barista
thinks its cool
to play the most
random
obscure
makes-no-sense music
under the radar.

and I can’t think.

like seriously,
I can’t even think
to finish
this
writing-
the reggae accordian
solo is eating
my brain.

Its eating
my braaaaaain
(
And laughing
while it does so;
blood dripping
from its teeth,
its eating
my brain. )
& I
can tell
which barista
picked this concoction-
he’s the only one
headbanging
to the polka-reggae.
making those lattes,
and cappuccinos,
(but never frappeccinos)
headbanging to polka-reggae.

I inhale.
hold my tongue
(and my seat)
as long as I can
;
Let the song
finish.

And then I realize
he’s about to play
the whole album.
This is NOT about to happen.

I get up
swallow my frustration
kindly ask him
“do you have anything
with
less polka beat?”

“What?” he says
“You don’t like (bla-bla-bla-artist)?”
(who I’ve obviously never heard of).

Head tilted &
half-smiling, I say
“I’m just trying
to read man”

He goes in the back.

(Silence)

for half a minute

and then something like
Enya with pan flutes
comes on.

Forget it.
I’m reading this poem in my car.
Gonna walk out into cold November
and read this poem in my car.

So I gather my things
(& seriously)
circus music starts starts playing.

I leave
but can still hear it
behind me.

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