Love Under Capitalism

By | 5 December 2019

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.

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