Critiquing his poetry at the bookstore bistro

“One or two per day of his,
  is about all I can stomach.”
Says White Chocolate Mocha
  lady in Icewear sweats.

“His words are like wall plaster;
  outdated — dry — & toxic.”
Says Expresso Octogenarian,
  guy in a sand-colored cardigan.

“Like reading doom squared;
  unworthy of the serious reader.”
Says the Seasonal Latte Sipper,
  in green turtleneck and red hi-tops.

“His lines remind me of malnourished children,
  weak – and searching for acceptance.”
Says the Decaf Goatee, with an unlit clove cigarette
  loosely held between thumb & forefinger.

“His words are stacked like cord wood,
   in search of a fire. Pure chimney fodder.”
Says Java Bean Frappuccino with,
  an air of extreme condescension.

“His net worth must be in pennies,
   if he survives on book sales.”
Says Caramel Macchiato, in a
  fine Brooks Brothers Suit.