Rough hands and loose beans

The burlap sack scratches my palm,

threads rough as old promises unraveling.

Coffee beans spill uneven, cracked,

like thoughts scattered in restless sleep.

The coarse fabric bites back,

reminding me of hands that held it tight,

rust and grit woven into every fiber.

Each bean a small weight, uneven and real,

falling slow and loud in the quiet market,

a reminder that nothing here is soft,

everything pressed through rough edges,

touched by hands that never learned to be gentle.