Gravity

At the café I am given a fork
with my croissant,
civility imposed
in silly little reminders,
as if my fingers not feral enough for
ripping, as if consumption demands order,
what animal self must I kill
in order to save my coat from crumbs?

The chair, a vinyl thing with odd angled
metal legs, buckles under my weight,
floor splayed,
newborn, and embarrassed for my berth
wild with density,
a thing roughly elevated.

My coffee goes cold in that way,
acidity prefacing familiar bitter,
I go to smoke on the corner, keep an eye
on the table lest anyone steal my shame,
cigarettes burn quicker in winter
six minutes cut to measly four
this, the only reduction I am capable of
this growing season.

$28.70 left in my account after
poor coffee and cutlery accompanied croissant,
two weeks and thirty bucks
until payday,
what parity to be so much
to have so little.

The fork lands in the bus tub
unused.