The Coffee Slaves

the warm hovel of the old, raspy pick-up calls to me,
but i ignore it, stepping out into the bitterly cold, dark air.
he stands in wait at the door -
and smiled.

inside, it smells of parakeets and dog pee and fresh-baked brownies.
dog hair and shoes
(big and small and medium and size in between)
adorne the floor, perfectly misplaced.
what he doesn't say: i'm sorry it's always like this.
what i don't say: it's ok

we drive in silence for two blocks to the house of coffee.
fresh espresso fills my nose.
the coffee slaves welcome us.
we sit, wallets still filled with hard-earned cash,
not caring when they glared at us.

as our backs lean against too-straight chairs at a too-small table,
i cannot help but think of the other conversations doubtlessly held here:
the reunions,
the laughs,
the break-ups,
the others like him and i -
no method to our madness.

a barista glares at us
finally making me pilfer over the money.
he doesn't get anything, but asks for a sip of mine.
warmth seeps down my throat and the girl smiles at me
as if she weren't a coniving capitalist.

i offer him a sip.
he laughs and says he is allergic to heat.
that's blasphemy and he knows it. i told him so.
he just chuckles and comes up with some witty reply.
some things never change.

he gives me the same sheepish look he always gives me
when we walk back inside his house.
he knows i don't mind, but he still has his pride.

in his room, i must be wary of every step
(oh, watch out for the sock monster!)
until i reach the safety of the un-made bed.
he never had been one for matching.
one pillowcase is floral, the other yellow.
sheets bright pink, blankets indigo.

just like our conversations:
colorful and mixed up.

just like our relationship:
colorful and messed up.