It is another Monday
and I am bent over in front of the cash register
reading some headlines
and
making some coffee
and
wishing hoping praying that i was an activist changing the world a baker making a souffle a grown adult doing her laundry and paying off her student loans and figuring her shit out
instead of scurrying around this store trying to find more sixteen ounce lids
because the girl who gets the tall iced americano with room every day
can’t go to her psychology class
until she has a lid
nobody tells me to smile here
i print out extra pieces of receipt paper so i have something to write on
pray the creative juices will flow from somewhere
not there
pick up a pen i use to mark drinks on students coffee cards
you are three dollars closer to a free white chocolate mocha my friend
and start to write
write a poem
write a poem for example about the sex i had last night
but i get as far as
’she hit me but only because i asked so nicely’
my words are tiny and stained
and someone wants to buy some pop tarts.
