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

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