The Nokomis Beach Coffee Café

We live in two neighborhoods.
When first we moved to the Twin Cities,
to South Minneapolis, which if it were not
for the tangled designations the Mississippi River
causes for us, would be Southeast Minneapolis.

We found the Coffee Shop

and stayed there.

We made friends there.

Dennis said our names

louder even than

the espresso machine,

so people had to learn them.

This morning Mari corrupted an article from the newspaper

by putting Dennis onto a perfectly appropriate title: he just

celebrated his fortieth, and he is our community organizer.

Three years ago we moved across the Minnesota River,

mostly because we wanted to live under an airport flight path,

but we never left the Coffee Shop. Saturdays, especially,

the friends we made meet there, and tell lies about things

we have done and said. It is community. Our community.

Our work there is unfinished.

We have to convince Mark that he does not need a motorcycle.

Sloan is not yet a year old, and we have to choose

a college for her. Someday Joel will take off his cap,

and all of us want to see what he looks like without a bill.

When she is ready, Nancy is going to explain

how pasting 325 tabs in a book makes it easy

to find things. One could shred cheese with the edges

of her books. Patti is going to teach Dale how to dance.

It seems like a waste, but it is her time.

And Dennis is getting older; still good, but noticably older.

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