The coffee sits in a trembling bead

The coffee sits in a trembling bead.

It won't sink into the fake grain,

just stays there, a dark eye

watching the dryer tumble a single sneaker.

Someone put a heater out here once,

or maybe a Lucky Strike.

The burn is a black-rimmed crater

showing the pressed guts of the board,

the dry, blonde thirst of sawdust.

Everything else is sealed.

The bleach smell is a thin skin

over the dirt of a hundred strangers.