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jay-claywellPoems
I wrote a book in this place. I have filled notebook pages hunched over this very table. Virtually every time I’ve come here to write, I start with a ¢.97 chocolate chip cookie and the ‘Sunday Special’, an ¢.87 cup of dark. Today, upon entry, I stumble upon Chocolate Shift Change. I watch as she tosses the first molasses disc into the garbage can. I ask: “You’re just going to throw them away?” She says: “They’re old.” “As am I.” I think, but don’t say. Instead: “I’ll buy them all right now.” (She looks at me embarrassed just a bit, but hurries to pull the rest of the expired cookies out of the warmer.) “We can’t sell you the old ones.” “The fresh ones taste better.” I doubt if I’d have known the difference. (Expired confections slide from her grasp.) Purchasing one, fresh, I speak of lost profits and typical first-world wastefulness. She nods knowingly, but shitlessly, (In that she couldn’t have given a **** I ask for a pack of smokes as well, meandering off in search of pulp and fire. My mind racing with the temporary status of everything. ***   -JBClaywell © P&ZPublications
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Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 8:13 PM UTC
Chocolate Chip Cookies are Biodegradable (So, I must admit, am I)
I wrote a book in this place. I have filled notebook pages hunched over this very table. Virtually every time I’ve come here to write, I start with a ¢.97 chocolate chip cookie and the ‘Sunday Special’, an ¢.87 cup of dark. Today, upon entry, I stumble upon Chocolate Shift Change. I watch as she tosses the first molasses disc into the garbage can. I ask: “You’re just going to throw them away?” She says: “They’re old.” “As am I.” I think, but don’t say. Instead: “I’ll buy them all right now.” (She looks at me embarrassed just a bit, but hurries to pull the rest of the expired cookies out of the warmer.) “We can’t sell you the old ones.” “The fresh ones taste better.” I doubt if I’d have known the difference. (Expired confections slide from her grasp.) Purchasing one, fresh, I speak of lost profits and typical first-world wastefulness. She nods knowingly, but shitlessly, (In that she couldn’t have given a **** I ask for a pack of smokes as well, meandering off in search of pulp and fire. My mind racing with the temporary status of everything. ***   -JBClaywell © P&ZPublications
Coffeehouse Poem: Ritual writing.
jay-claywell
Written by
jay-claywell
45/M
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 8:13 PM UTC
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