tom miller in the coffee shop
By Charlotte Covey
i met him when he broke
a mug, old hands mottled and
shaking. blood bloomed on arthritic fingers,
mixed blue-gray skin with rust. i found
band aids in the back room, asked him
six times if there was someone
i could call. he smiled when he said
no, waved a bandaged goodbye, fresh
coffee in his good hand. he came back
every thursday, sometimes
in the morning, sometimes not
‘til the sun was setting. always
alone. he called me miss sunshine and left
ten dollars in the tip jar, ‘til i told him
a small black coffee wasn’t worth forty
a month. after that, he always left
twenty. when a thursday
came and went, i closed
half an hour late. ten people wandered
in, but no one with thin silver
hair and the travel mug i painted
last christmas (he’d cried
when i gave it to him). when he creaked
in seven days after, at twelve noon
exactly, i realized i’d been holding my breath
all week. he laughed at me,
said, i’m not gone
yet. i laughed with saw dust in my throat and thumps
in my chest. two years later, sometimes i still close
half an hour late, looking out the picture
window, his coffee waiting
on the counter. i think
it’s getting cold.