You said
this coffee shop sucked
so we
grabbed a spot in back.
anything
but the screaming wheel
at 7am
on a Saturday.
As far
from the jobsite
as
possible. That’s
where we
are: far
as we
can get
with our
noses still
hanging
over
Sniff
out that free
time
management
and
coffee.
So we’re
in back of the Bozo
under a
clean ceiling
under a
clean blue
under
which storms have
been
grazing for days.
So now
all the clean
white
babies wheel
their
parents around
adventure-morning
anticipation.
and each
one that rolls
in the joint
wrinkles
up right corner of
my right eye, the one
furthest
from you.
attempts
to finagle a blockade
so you won’t see.
Because
it seems now
today
and tomorrow
and
maybe a morning later
Is all I
know of you.
I grow
selfishly frantic
in the
face of your pain
even dreamed up,
as if it
weren’t always
this way.
You’ve
gone,
you’ve gone,
you’ve
gone
you’ve
gone to pry a breakfast taco
out of
the fingers of a
dying paycheck
and I
sit both in
loathing and lust
for men
and babies
and the
futures they possess
in their
silhouettes.
Only I
can’t pry
them out
with a well-timed
and
mannered question.
23
minutes since
you’ve gone.
I wonder
how much
salsa
and coffee
hangs in
your mustache.
Bossa nova.
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