The Gap

The eggs are too cold and the coffee is black,

the cook’s in the window, he’s watching my back.

I’m the only one here at a quarter to four,

listening for someone to walk through the door.

Up in the corner, a dark, shiny eye,

a mirrored-glass dome where the little birds fly—

or so I imagine. It’s just a machine,

keeping the floor and the register clean.

It shows me a version of me that is small,

a smudge on the tile, a blur in the hall.