POEM 025/100

One leg drags

in filthy, torn pants

fingers tremble when not balled into a fist

his mouth berates the empty air

 

I think,

this is probably one of his better days

and write this in my notebook

so avoiding eye contact

as he briefly hovers in front of me

like steam

 

My absurdly hot Americano

in its thin paper cup

has burnt my fingertips

Advertisements

One Response to POEM 025/100

  1. Do they have to make it SO hot?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: