To enter Starbucks on Mich Ave or not to enter; that is the question:
Whether tis nobler for the mind to suffer
The endless Burberry boots & inflated lips in queue
Or to CoffeeMate in PJs risking the allure of a nap,
And by napping, obliterate the Burb momentarily. To return home, to feign smiles — No more — and by feigning smiles, I mean to clench fists as palpitating heart quickens its pace
With the anger that a self-righteous Dearborn girl is heir to. Tis a consummation
one can only dream of, bro. To homemake coffee, to retreat — to retreat, perchance to ruminate; ay — there’s the rub!
For in that runimation what escape routes may come
When I have shuffled off this too too hawked out hometown.
#SMH, the excitement is too much to bear.
To homemake coffee — planning escape to fabulous acronym-ed cities: There’s the respect that makes calamity of our imprisonment
[Aside] Although my parents don’t protest my departure…
For who would bear the rats and hawks of Warren,
Th’ gossiper’s tongue, the Greenland-bagger’s glare,
The ever-watchful eyes of Baba’s friends, the fiscal torture of Coach-purse rites of passage,
The conformity of uncomfortable dress, the surgical deformity of face,
The corruption of every office, and the wasta
That your unworthiness must brown-nose to maintain,
When she, herself, might her escape make
With a bare Spirit Airlines ticket? Which wanderlust would bear,
to endure forced nods during reality TV show conversations on the second floor of the Mardigian Library that could be fortunately interrupted by a dinner summon from Mama at any minute,
But that the dread of a lentil-less life,
The falafel-free cities, the haram-hamburger McDonalds,
The undiscovered country, past the bounds of Wayne County,
from whence no olive-skinned traveller returns halal, puzzles the will,
and makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus my desire for the Starbucks non-fat no-whip Pumpkin Spice Latte and the coy hellos to single doctors on the couches does make a coward of me – of us all.
And thus the native accent of “How are you?” and “Your purse is so cute!” that swiftly eludes my righteous tongue
is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of guilty thought,
And enterprise of great heels and, with them, an absurd sense of community…
With this regard, my protests turn awry
And lose the name of action. — Soft you now,
The fair Dr. Bazzi! — Nymph, in thy orisons and stethoscope
Be all my mother’s entreaties for marriage remembered.