For Her Bastard Son

In the cafe on Main Street people talk
over tea. They hold meetings with double

buckled business bags and triple shots of
espresso. They show wedding pictures to

couples with brand new circles of shimmering
silver, yet to have children. "We're doing it by the

book," the proud couples say. A discreet
accessory to their love, contempt glitters in front

of the invisible barista who wipes the tabletops
clean with bare hands and tries to remove the

stains of careless spillage from the wood so
she can get paid and put food on the table.