Cold Coffee

It was just one of those days.

Finding yourself in the back booth

at the old corner café,

 

reading the weather report

in a crumpled paper left behind

by the previous customer

 

and eyeing the dripping

black umbrellas halfway unfurled

in the bin by the door,

 

flipping to the funnies

and skimming the colorful page,

wondering what it was

 

that you ever found so amusing

among those washed-out panels,

gazing out the window

 

to find the flower merchant

across the street hauling his

lopsided hydrangea arrangements

 

under a nearby awning,

sipping the last few dregs of

tepid coffee from your chipped cup

 

and refusing a refill

from the passing waitress

with the small crooked teeth,

 

and remembering suddenly

that you must pick up

your dry cleaning by four.

 

It was just one of those days.