Every year I get older
And it’s so frustrating
To be too young to talk
About getting old. I used to drive everyday
To the Starbucks on the far end of town and order
A tall mocha, skim milk with whip cream. The barista practically
Had it made before I walked in the door.
I would sit in the corner, not drinking, just watching.
Not wanting to stay, but having nowhere in particular
To go. I measured my days in coffee cups and disposable paper sleeves
I could have become a clock maker and let the hours drip by
One by one into tiny espresso cups.
But fuck it, I’d rather be a poet instead.