drinking my third cup of coffee
at the coffeeshop off North Elm Street,
black with no room for cream,

and knowing i’ve spent too much
even as i prepare to buy another,
i begin to cry

because only empty corners and cobwebs,
silent shadows and dirty dishes
wait for me at my studio apartment

and i can’t stomach another evening
tracing the same spots on the ceiling
and stains on the floor

so i’ll stay another hour or two,
even though it’s already 9:30 at night,
and pretend to be the barista’s best friend

National Poetry Writing Month Day 24

Once again off prompt.

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