I Text You at 10AM

 

to tell you the man at the coffee shop called me
Pocahontas again. You say, You don’t even drink coffee. 
That’s not the point. The point is there’s a table
with good lighting so I can see the picture of us 

that’s still on my computer screen without a glare, 
which is better than looking out the window
because this city’s boring. I don’t tell you though. 
You already think I complain too much, but I can’t 

help it if we looked best when you had a beard. 
You shaved it after packing up your t-shirts and CDs. 
You took the toaster-oven but left the Keith Haring
poster. It’s a fake, after all. I say, I changed 

the curtains, and you say, Nice. I order a coffee, 
watch the cream swirl before settling. 

Eloisa Amezcua / March - April  2016 Issue