it gets stuck between my fingernails
all coffee grit and stale money and
last summer and the awakening earth
once again

the floorboards have a years' worth of
dirt, a new layer to add to the old, the same
old same old, and these days
my pants cling loosely to my legs,
as if afraid of coming too close to my skin,
and the cars shine like fresh quarters
in the parking lot on a rainy day where
i sit on the old gray porch
rickety and solitary and stained
sipping coffee, watching the days go by.

***

i need to really learn how to accept that when people come, they usually go, too, sooner or later.