Spare

There’s a line, same as at the soup kitchen:

The people talk to their phones

As we do to ourselves

We all sound the same.

But here they tell themselves what they should do

... and where they are

... and where they were

... and where they will go after

They don’t repeat the same old news

Of wars and accidents

Haunting memories.

I stay quiet and wait,

Same as at the soup kitchen.

But they, like a pack of hounds

Watch, looking straight at the counter

Waiting for the master to shout

Something in a foreign tongue

Their order

To jump on the paper cup

And flee

To where they said they’d go.

“Cup of coffee?” I ask

“TALL AMERICANO” He shouts

“One fifty” He says

But I’m short on spared change

So the Tall American he called

Shows up from behind

Asks me to leave,

Not to cause any trouble

As if I were an enraged dog

Refusing to be tamed.

But I’m happy

To be outside again

Where the cold air is free

And I have no master.