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She walks in so gracefully,
make-up smeared,
lips perfectly painted.
Her expensive clothes dripping dry,
looking weak against the floresent light,
washing out the look on her face.

The man sitting at the table by the door,
examines her with more than eyes.
Willing to buy her time, and her body.
But she's not that type of girl.
And he knows it, but won't care.

The guy waiting in line,
drowning out the silence with music in his ears.
Intimidated by all she can present,
daring the whites behind his lips,
and the words in his throat,
for her.
But she doesn't care, because he doesn't care.

The girl working behind the counter,
disgusted with envy,
Standing with pride, knowing they're nothing of the same.
Nothing the same, all covered in shame.

And all along I sit here,
writing lines of what people say,
with no sound, no movement.
And all along nobody realizes that there's more to coffeeshop poems.