Cold Coffee And A Piece Of Blueberry Pie

She arrives before me p.m.
and leaves after I do a.m.,
Leaving a bathtub-sized child at home
with an open children's book on his chest,
Or a weary husband who still doesn't know what to do with his life, sleeping with the T.V on.

I like to go to the airport to see the travelers.
The busy travelers with black suitcases,
The young travelers with no suitcases,
The one’s that have done it a thousand times,
The virgins.

She isn't there to catch a flight,
Her feet have always been on the floor
You can tell, by her sad eyes,
and by that theatrical smile she makes her lips put on with
so,
much,
struggle.

Her appearance is dull,
I feel I could easily erase her.
I look at her old-white apron,
Her mind's probably filled with colors.

I open my wallet and look for the biggest bill
I can find, a 20.
I place it besides the now cold coffee and blueberry pie
I ask for every day
and leave.