The new joint around the corner keeps

changing its name. I get it. I am afraid

of growing old. I can’t afford this face

for long, this place for long. I still invite

people in. The barista wants to know

me. I want to trust his intentions, his sup

as I sip at what he just made and feel

a little more alive. I shiver at the usual

delivered by so many smiles. His dimples.

Large cap? Desire hissing. Four forty five.

It feels wrong to say don’t ask me

to be human. This is a transaction only.

I need to preside over when I am more

than money moving between machines.

That’s what all of this comes down to:

this is not my first coffee of the day &

won’t be my last. I rub my hand over

the silver band of my fade and imagine

it as his, as a distance closed, as a tug

at my trackies. He needs to be talking.

To be more than a service. A silence.

The cost of this moment is greater

than either of us knows or cares to

think about for the other. The radio

squawks: there’s been another attack.

A crack tears through the small café.

I take what I have ordered and leave

with what I need: no expectation

of a return.