Well, this is sort of a story-poem...sorry if it doesn't make much sense...anyway, please read and enjoy! (Oh, and please review, as well...I love knowing what people think of my work!) Thanks!

A Coffee House In London

I. Seamus and Marlene
Stirred luke-warm coffee in a dingy-green slice
Of the Universe, West of the Promised Land,
Somewhere in London,
Where constant rain
Consorted gingerly with
The dripping successions of human
Thought and
Seamus pulled a black
Hood out of his duffel-bag
And placed it in front of
Him, coffee and murder, stirring sugar-lines
With a killing-past, Marlene-unflinching, the mask--
On the table,
Worn down to marrow-color
From years of spilled
Lukewarm drinks and broken
Hooded men and women-
How many have died here?
Marlene, looking at the hood, fingering
Eyeholes rudely cut, her blood on the table,
Her heart stirred in
Skinned-over latte (no foam),
Her Aryan hair turning green from the lights,
She stares into Seamus' Orange-hating eyes,
The green in his black hair dancing wildly, his eyes,
There is the black in his eyes, streaked across
His year-worn skin, and how many years can
Twenty and three ware?
Seamus, his eyes reflecting six o'clock news
And a futile triumph...
Marlene takes out a black-and-white photograph--
"This is the bare bones of my past, stripped to essence,
death of your death, Seamus, worn openly inside-out, lurking
in the coffee house-corners of a Judging Universe"
Dead, like the hood
Reflecting--all those
Dripping into rain
Sluicing down London's tire-tread roadways
All masked and in so-
Barely able to see.

II. Seamus stood and paid
Three pocket-worn American Dollars,
Which the man at The Counter--
Who has washed the marrow
Of hooded Irishmen off
Too many tables, seen
Weeping frauleins, with
Face-stamped photographs,
All too much to look closely at currency (since it all
Equated to the same, now, the past makes no
National distinction)
Took the ware-torn dollars
Away and out.
Marlene grabbed the
Hood and her photograph...
Caught up with Seamus on the Corner-
The world only suddenly gray, London as
Belfast or Berlin,
Pounds or Marks all
Become subject to American currency-
Either way the rain falls clear to the marrow, spilling
It over coffee-tables, stained burnished scarlet
And it all could be paid
In American dollars, all
The news stories, all the history books, all the rainy
People who are double-burdened with masks and
Pictures,
And London sneers.
All that easy.

III. Seamus will not fly
Tonight, the American dollar
Holding English security,
Not with that duffel, but always easier
When the World melts with rain--
Seamus is one to melt, and
Sometimes they let him pass--
If only because they themselves tend
To target that bullets' aim,
And Marlene will have No Where,
She does carry a handbag, that is it,
Her hair still green from the light-
Seamus met her in a nondescript
Way, and she will meet him on the International
Snippet later, Berlin Time,
She will remember Seamus-
And the three dollars of dreams and demons,
Spilled over coffee
God--keep the plane low
Snow storm over Wales, maybe, Rain over Ulster.
Save him from all he can...
Will ever become and Seamus turns to
A rain-mirage
For only Marlene, with an old song that has
Twisted to melt any snow, gathered over
Belfast.

IV. The coffee shop
Will be gone tomorrow, the tired man
Just another dark alley in fog-misted London,
Another corner in Venice, Moscow, Athens,
New York-
Where two marrow-bled gray-green coffee drinkers
Who pay in foreign currency
It matters not--
Whether they lay down their hoods
Take out their photographs
Or keep it all with German-strong sternness
Really just afraid--
Marlene could write his epitaph, the only One,
They only Thing anyone should know,
The only part of Seamus,
Away from his stocking-hood, his human
Bag and gun, the bluebird Seamus that
The news will not report...Marlene will be the One
To remember
That coffee, bone-tasting dull coffee--
Shared,
And three American dollars.