At the coffeeshop where the torrential downpour fades the streets outside
into covered up dreams and the water runs across the ground like liquid bedsheets
folding and refolding as they tunnel into the sewers and drains
I sip a sip of dark liquid, it's acidic on my tongue.
The pals next to me speak of addiction, their conversation bubbles up
like a boiling pot just before it steams
and I eavesdrop while sketching in my journal.
The woman at the counter has a T-Shirt that says
The Death Penalty Kills Innocent People
I ask for a refill and I have a five dollar bill
Then I go back to looking out the window
and checking the Doppler.
