coffee jeans

the coffee has permanently stained my jeans. little coffee finger marks imprint themselves along my back pockets, my knees. my jeans have become my permanent wash-rags - they take what my hands must discard.

when i come home, my jeans smell like the cafe. it's funny how places - their smells - can seep themselves into the threads of our clothing. it's as if the places want to be remembered, and weave themselves into our fabric threads. those moments when we come home from a long journey or a place - say college, a backpacking trip - one whiff from our bags is always enough to relive the journey in its entirety, pleasant or not. my jeans smell of sour milk and long hours, and glimpses into hundreds of lives, & rubber floor mats.

i remember when i used to sweat in the summer heat behind that counter. hauling milks, grinding espresso, the sweeping and stooping - my pores cried with sweat, my shirt would drench & i'd hope nobody noticed. it was always the same thing in the summer - fill the iced coffees, brew fresh tea, & make sure we have plenty of lemons. in the summer, people were laid back & less frequent. in the summer, i was still the New Girl.

& now. i shiver in the morning when i grind the coffees in the basement. that cold, it creeps through my threadbare shirt, and i remember my flannel bed sheets and the days when i'd lie wide awake in my winter bed drinking coffee & reading poems & watching the snow fall silently over ithaca. i miss ithaca. it's in the mornings at the cafe, standing in the cold basement, alone in my coffee filled jeans that i miss it most.