Advice

I tell myself

Get a job, you’re broke

You’ve got cold fingers from lingering

At the table in the café

The one by the door.

The businessmen come

In and out

With their take-away cups

Of liquid austerity.

The parents rock crying children

In colored strollers

That are grandly percussive,

Full of toys and crayons, and keys, no doubt.

I paid with change today.

It rattled away,

And the tall skeletal man at the register

Frowned at me.

“I like your hair.” He says as I count.

He tells me this every time I come in,

and watches as my lips curl.

Get a job today,

I tell myself,

And I sift the sandy leaves

At the bottom of my cup,

And hum to myself.

Audio recording available here:

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