Seated in the same seat
squirming 
working to make the stiff
straight wooden
back rest
mold to my spine.

The purple-haired pourer
situated 
behind the bar, per usual,
the sweet older (potential) couple
propped up in their 
booth–
neither of their yellow-hooded 
raincoats leave their screens
as they sip the steaming
mugs in front of them,

the no bigger
than a step ladder
kiddo
glued to the pastry glass
drooling 
as his grandma–

clothed in the most
perkiest pink 
with a shimmering clip 
clasping the hair 
out of her rich
swampy green eyes–

pulls the clunkiest handful 
of dusty quarters 
from her beaded coin purse,
and your hand 
graces the crevice 
between my shoulder blades,

pulling me back 
to your gaze.