Decaffeinated soldiers

The local barista, off collaboratively mourning the death of some concept,
left only a dark café of lonely chairs to disappoint
the impromptu parade of tired morning souls.

Not a granule of Arabica or French Roast
touched a drop of hot water.

No flavor infusion occurred
to produce the hot motivation that normally drives the regulars

to the ergonomically fitted chair in the skyscraper,
to the hospital with its foundation
of white bread, adrenaline, blood and balloons,
to the university and the factory, to the pointy white church.

They scattered across the city like misshapen marbles,
bumping and clacking against the caffeinated,
making them burn their hands.