So I was at Starbucks and the 18yo poet sat on the other side of the store. Both of our mothers died of cancer. Both of us like to do our own thing. Both of us go one way and our friends go another.
We’ve only spoken once. I read her poem at her invitation one Sunday afternoon.
I don’t want to bother her. I’ve got writing to do. I’m working the Fourth Step — taking a complete and fearless moral inventory. I don’t want to be a creepy old man and ask her if she’s got any more poetry to share. Oldest line in the book.
So I’ve already drained my Treinta Passion Iced Tea with two Splendas and I’m ready for the 50c refill. I get up to snag a napkin and then spread it out on my table. I take off my lid holding the long green straw and carefully place it on my napkin, making sure that no part of the straw touches the bare table.
With my two quarters in hand, I pick up my cup and turn towards the counter, only to find to my horror that I’m dragging my lid and straw with me. I feel awkward as I untangle my mess and I hope she hasn’t seen me struggle. Why do I keep giving away my low social status?
