Day Twenty-Seven: ‘Toothpick Prose’

Ordering Yunnan black at the counter there,
and here we are: me with shave cuts and you

red as October in an apron. Hellos
polite as always, but spinach in my teeth,

so I ask for toothpick. A toothpick
from a goddamn barista? I was reaching,

you see, but presentations loom and weather comments
grow stale after weeks like discarded grinds.

The jangle overhead plays us out, mercifully.
You turn, I stomp away. The door dings. Out.