Another Tuesday

The plastic smell of stale beer

and cheap cleaner. He didn't

even ask. Just set it down,

the glass slick from the ice machine,

my usual,

a glass of brown for a brown girl,

like some kind of ritual.

My elbow finds the spot,

a small depression in the fake wood grain,

where the lacquer wore off years ago.

I trace the rough edge

with a painted nail, chipped,

like the corner of my own tired mouth

after another Tuesday.

The fluorescent hums, a low, constant insult.

It's not late, but it feels late.

Always.