Coffee House Blues

by Douglas Polk

coughing uncontrollably,
mucus expelled in my direction,
wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve,
my hand over my cup of coffee,
hoping the drink still pure,
daydreams of smashing his forehead against the table,
and beating him bloody with my fists,
next time I will sit further away from the counter,
she is late,
as usual,
probably in the parking lot,
creating and practicing her excuse,
no respect for my intelligence,
she needs to believe her fairy tales,
too tired to really care,
what the fuck am I doing here once again,
is it love or boredom,
which I seek,
or want to run from,
she opens the door,
and sees me,
her game face on,
I silently curse myself,
wishing this a bar,
instead of a coffee house.