rexx

monday. coffee shop.
been sitting in my corner window, third room,
before a pile of another's ashes.
yesterday's paper left strewn across the tabletop.
fitting centerpiece for my pack of smokes
and the remnants of a once hot mug of coffee
(black, for here, keep the change)
I light up, check the time,
shove dostoevsky back into my bag.
smoke hits the glass as i exhale
a gloriously dusty hand print on the sterile universe beyond the frame.
(more than one always seemed to exist from this spot)
I keep forgetting that night descends sooner, now...
"dee's cafe" reflects more brightly in my window
with each drag i take.
those pink neon lights,
(corner booth, another round, keep the change)
they don't call my name like they used to.
i abandon the last of my cigarette, still smoking,
amidst the day's cellophane and ash,
amidst its thoughts and conversation,
and amidst my own that have lingered over the years.
i exit through the second room,
the air outside is comfortable.
and now all i'm thinking about
is how many cellophane wrappers i must have found in that corner
in the past one thousand five hundred and ninety something days of my life.
and i'm still here
(i'm still here, somehow)
after all these years.
stepping on the bus and taking my seat
(its the driver that's always called me baby, all these years)
I never glance towards those neon lights,
never think to.
don't even think about that drink much at all, these days.
addicted to nothing but life and love
(and coffee and cigarettes)
and baby, you know,
that's all i ever really wanted anyhow.