In Starbucks

I am at a loss tonight. No, begin. The bones of the building show through, adorned with all the sinews and arteries of the coffee shop. Or: a raccoon with a round body, drawn in Crayola, surely amateur, or perhaps the work of an artist who has invented a new type of world. Neither right. Both sound the same, neither going anywhere. How about the rumble and honks and bar music, where do they fit in? Not too loud now. Not too tired. Where is the expanse tonight, somewhere above and beyond this scene. Built of words, stripped by disbelief.