The Sir Problem

The new coffee place, all raw concrete

and too-loud music, a beat

I don't catch. Or don't want to.

And everyone's too bright, too new.

Then the kid behind the counter,

young enough to be my daughter,

looks right at me, no hesitation.

'Can I help you, sir?' A full-blown declaration.

Sir. It lands like a small, flat stone.

I look at my face in the window, alone.

Too tired, yes. Lines where no lines used to be.

Suddenly, the whole room's looking at me,

or, more accurately, through me.