lie in wait and go through fifty packs
of cigarettes, shaking one leg in idle seismology
and rattling spare change—
somewhere out there, there’s a beggar
ordering fancy coffee with your name misspelled
on the side of the cup, and the barista
makes sure to spill tiny drops on the counter as she hands it away
just so she has something to distract
herself with, when café rush hour takes over
into infinite passive stretches of replayed cheap hits and blasé
mundanity. perhaps you have the same get-out-of-town
ignition ambition as her, but the
patience is calibrated just a little bit differently; tomorrow
the beggar might steal a millionaire’s wallet
up there around west street and the barista might
finally get her big break
being a famous model for some shady automobile company
but you’d still be here,
making philosiphised fancies and abstract art
with acrid puffs of nicotine smoke
and praying for lung cancer,
composing fanciful jingles with the last three quarters
in your pocket that clash dissonantly against the fifty-third replay
of hey jude in a single godawful morning,
and hoping that perhaps this time,
your stupid name will finally be spelled right
on that beggar’s coffee cup
when you drop a measly dollar on it by his usual spot tomorrow—
oh well, a man can dream, anyway.
you’ll get up. you’ll snuff out the dying glow of your cheap pall mall.
you’ll dust away the ashes on your long-suffering knee.
you’ll drain your glass, shut your whining laptop, and leave a pathetic less-than-20% tip for the missing barista.
and you’ll get up and go.
as soon as your sleeping leg feels better.
any moment now.