Stripes cut across his face
and onto the cold
concrete floor
where his body lies and has
lay for several days now
and several weeks to come
He's starting to forget what
his wife smells like and the
lilt of her smile
with the sparkle of her eyes,
all of it fades from his memory
and he's terrified because he knows that
soon,
she's just going to...
disappear.
On his tongue
is the last drop of sweet sweet
coffee (or at least, the breadth of a wish
that tastes like coffee)
unparalleled in its perfection
oh, this is what he misses
coffee, which marks
the beginning of
each
and
every
day.
He misses the way his coworkers
complained about the rings in the cup
and how the red mug
always tasted like soap!
and how his boss made the coffee too hot and too
strong and far too bitter
so it stung and sweltered
and sometimes he would pour the
molten liquid into that
styrofoam vessel just because,
just because it's what everyone does.
No more, doctor!
the voice spits into the dark.
They don't let felons have coffee.
They're not going to let you kiss your
beautiful wife. I might just take her from you.
Who knows?
You can't stop me.
You're useless.
You're behind bars.
Whatcha gonna do, Dr. Chase?
What can you do now?
You know what you are?
PATHETIC.
Just
like
your
father
said.