The coffee shop is not a nursery.


Her baby is crying.

She paid a buck seventy five,

will finish her mochachinno;

not even look at the man,

pinching his nose, studying

the polish of the bar.

He wants to scream

in the baby’s face, scream until he is nipple red

and out

of breath,

scream till the worm is silent, returned to the earth.


First published in Read This #15 , 2009.