Coffee, poem by Rebecca Schumejda

One of the only main­stays on Broadway
is Burg­er King,
where I get my morn­ing coffee.
Some­how the man­ag­er, Tony,
always sneaks in the exact number
of days he has left until retirement.
Some­times the weath­er is unbear­ably hot
or wicked­ly cold,
or his joints are achy or he just got
over a flu, or an employee
failed to show up for a shift
so he had to fill in for them or
a cus­tomer was rude or the dis­trict manager
is com­ing in or the cor­po­ra­tion is
try­ing out a new healthy item
that no one wants to order,
but he still has to push
or they have to stay open
an hour lat­er or they have to work
some corny catch phrase into each transaction.
But no mat­ter what is going on,
Tony nev­er fails to remind me
that he is one day closer
to not hand­ing me my morn­ing coffee.

rebeccaschumejdaRebec­ca Schume­j­da is the author of Wait­ing at the Dead End Din­er (Bot­tom Dog Press, 2014), Cadil­lac Men (NYQ Books, 2012), Falling For­ward, a full-length col­lec­tions of poems (sun­ny­out­side, 2009); The Map of Our Gar­den (verve bath, 2009); Dream Big Work Hard­er (sun­ny­out­side press 2006); The Tear Duct of the Storm (Green Bean Press, 2001). She lives in New York's Hud­son Val­ley. www​.rebec​ca​schume​j​da​.com

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