Balance

The light from the ceiling is a cold, white glare,

bouncing off the beans and my own thin hair.

The card reader gives a sharp, thin beep,

a sound that says the promise didn't keep.

The woman behind me checks the time on her wrist,

adding her breath to the checkout mist.

I have to choose the soap or the ground roast,

standing here like a very hungry ghost.

I push the coffee back across the black belt,

ignoring the way that the pity is felt.

The can is dented and the label is torn,

just another Monday to be quietly worn.