Waiting for coffee tracing rings

Waiting for coffee, tracing rings

on the worn counter, then my eyes just dropped.

Underneath, where nobody sings

or pays attention, where time has stopped.

Hardened gum, flattened and grey,

decades of spit, stuck fast.

Someone's old secret, thrown away,

a pencil scribble, meant to last

only for a moment.

Dust, a fine lint, clinging to a loose wire,

pulled from some forgotten lamp.

This unseen world, holding its quiet fire,

this dirty, overlooked, humble camp

of human neglect, human touch.

It says so much.