In this crumbling town,
As dead as Michael Bolton’s career,
I keep the keys
To the kingdom of sugar and caffeine.

The local gentry of
Beggars, druggies,
And mental patients
Line up my counter,
Night after night.

The boss isn’t looking,
And I give them free refills,
Feeling like Robin Hood.

Women with dozens of dirty kids,
And more on the way
Share the space with
Laid-off EJ workers,
Wearing overalls.

These ghosts of this ghastly town
Have flocked together like mad birds,
Beckoned by the promise of French Crullers
And Irish Cremes.

I don’t love them.
I just keep the promise,
And silently fill their cups,
As the rain throws itself
Against the windows.