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coffee beans

Barista Bye-Bye

My apron cries for me like a child left behind,
A stained wet face mewling behind glass.
I would have stolen the one thing that was mine.
Coffee beans stick to my fingers and I can smell
the waxy sheen of decaf and Sumatra.
My pinky tastes like breakfast,
And my eyes square dance in the espresso puddle on the bar.
I never touched those beans in glass.
Instead, I stole a teddy bear on my last day of work.
I wish I could make him a small necklace of beans,
So he would weigh enough to make the grinder stop grinding.
The fuzzy knick-knack of loss.
The coffee makes me tired, tired,
I pick myself up and we fly
To where we live in an apartment I hate,
A place that will burn, burn, burn into ashes
In the shape of sheened coffee beans.
And I will collect and grind and brew out of memory—
Even though I am no longer welcome.
My apron gets tired of wailing and gets quiet.
I am walking away, slowly, dropping a trail of coffee beans out of my pocket
For a teddy, who can’t walk, to follow.