Bus was late had to tie my shoe

Bus was late, had to tie my shoe

leaning on that counter, you know the kind,

the orange swirled with brown, a cheap disguise

for whatever lurked underneath. My hand finds

the spot where it’s chipped, a tiny crater,

and a sugar packet, stuck from a week ago, or later.

And it’s 1998, suddenly.

That summer, the grease, the way my knees

stuck to the booth. This counter’s still here,

blinking back at me, through all the years.

Same sticky residue, same faint smell

of burnt toast and secrets it won’t tell.

It just sits, waiting, holding every stain,

a witness to so much, through sun and rain.