Fickle latch. Broken bell.
Half-assed toaster. Microwave
that works only sort-of sometimes.
Regulars I’ve known by ounce
and extra hot, decaf, how many shots?
Some by name. Which tips well
while scowling, which never will,
then once in a blue moon, do.
Idiosyncrasies I’ll miss
when I’m done holding down
this particular patch of concrete,
these reinforced EZ-Knees mats,
this small corner of the world
at Holgate and 28th. Sunrise
through the bent laurel hedge.
Tide of TriMet’s ebb and flow.
The million and one leaves left
swirling in the wind.