Cold Brew

By: Sean Brown

 

Five pounds of rain water

nag at my suit. Umbrella’s in the car; the

weather man told another one of his lies. 58 and

sunny turned into 46 and a hellstorm. The radar

looked good until it didn’t.

 

My shoes squelch through the sponge of sod,

taking a shortcut

to a paved sidewalk,

where city street chews black leather

like a pig ear or a femur.

 

Traffic lights blink like a liar.

I duck under an awning,

watch a pigeon shiver on the wire—

to shake off the rain and shed the wet.

 

I light a cigarette I don’t want,

just to give my hands something to do.

I get half a hit before the precipitation spits

it out.

Nicotine and wet wool—my new cologne.

 

A bus passes by, catches the pool of a curbside

puddle, trotting through the street

like a mare rinsing its hooves in a river.

An ad on the side solicits for a cheap lawyer:

“We only make money when YOU win.”

 

I guess we’re both broke today.

 

A woman walks past the awning, comfortable

beneath the clear shield of a plastic umbrella,

her dachshund wearing a yellow raincoat

like Georgie. Some come prepared.

 

She doesn’t look at me,

but the dog does—

eyes like wet pebbles,

beans of black licorice.

Stares at me like I’m stupid,

forgetful—maybe both.

 

They pass and the sidewalk reverts to ambient

sound, something you play to coax a baby into

sleep.

I toss the cigarette to the ground after a quick

attempt at reignition fails.

I tuck my hands in my pockets, and

find a receipt for yesterday’s coffee house tea.

 

Piping hot Earl Grey, black as asphalt, bitter with

bergamot.

It scalded my tongue and gums. I’ve still got

a few stray flaps of dead skin.

And now I steep like tea, cold brew,

fingertips numb from pocket sweat and

windchill.

 

I don’t much care for being chewed, but it’d be a

damn bit better if the world brushed its teeth for

a change.