So Am I
The smell of coffee, running down the pavement
as we empty the carafes, stains my fingers
like the Crayola paints I could never use
to my satisfaction.
Caffeine invades the pores and cracks
of my chlorine-dried skin
as the high of all-nighters and absent-minded tears
demoralizes my synapses.
The earthquake dawns in my fingers--
disseminates through the ridge of once broken skin
left on my elbow by concrete and fingernails
that couldn’t leave well enough alone;
advances easily to the just as easily forgotten
thin white line at my throat--
because the night is cold and so am I.