Hungover, standing
in a café
looking at the line of
white middle class vermin
stacked
behind the counter.
Outside, the bright October sun
invades and cauterises –
bright gold beams pierce
untinted windows
burn oak floors
and rap against the soft parts
of my skull.
I look up.
Four in front.
A slim, olive-skinned girl serves
one patron every
six minutes.
I just want water.
Give me water.
“Next!”
An old man steps up.
He wants a boiled egg.
They don’t boil eggs.
They negotiate for poached.
I tap my fingers and stamp my feet
and the family behind me thinks
I’m scum.
Next, next, next.
I fall forward against the
polished counter.
“Bottle of water.”
The slim girl looks.
“We only have four-hundred mil bottles.”
“Give me four.”
“We only have one.”
I grind my teeth and take it.
It was five dollars.
I was thirsty
all day.