I wait at the counter,
watch a lone shopping cart’s
chrome flash. For weeks nothing’s

changed. But now August’s fist
closes and the city
takes it hard on the chin.

All of us sucker-punched,
down for the count. Outside,
the clerk lights another

smoke, coughs, yells at the drunk
pissing into bushes
behind the blue dumpster.

I leave my dollar for
the paper. The front page:
a dark tree, a noose, and

still no one cares waitress
pay is only two bucks
an hour. We all do what

we can. Traffic piles up.
Rain falls. The drivers stare,
wait for the light to change.