I am drinking coffee
like it is my only appointment,
the mug warm, reliable,
unambitious.
Outside the window
people hurry past
with faces already engaged
in outcomes—
meetings, promotions, errands
that will leave receipts.
They walk the way the successful walk,
slightly forward,
as if pulled by invisible lanyards
bearing names of things they are good at.
One man speaks into his phone
with the confidence of someone
whose calendar believes in him.
A woman strides by holding
two Ipads
redundancy is a sign of competence
Meanwhile, I am accomplishing nothing
with remarkable consistency.
The coffee cools,
an event I observe carefully,
as though noticing it were a form of work.
I imagine the lives behind the coats—
kitchens with matching chairs,
drawers that close properly,
someone waiting at night
who knows which light to leave on.
is a kind of wisdom.
I take another sip,
surprised by the thinness,
the way warmth retreats
and consider this
my contribution to the day.
Soon I will rinse the mug,
return it to the cupboard,
a small domestic triumph
no one will hear about.
The street empties.
The coffee is gone.
I am still here,
the only skill there is
