cold coffee

he was a stubborn
child. no, was a
word he used quite
often. never, was
another, folding
his short thick
arms across his
little barreled
chest. and when his
breath was held,
and made his skin
a shade of bruised
blue, he'd get his way,
whatever he thought
best for him, never
for you. i see him
every morning these
days, his hands tight
and red on the wheel,
cursing the traffic,
or stamping his
feet when the train
is late, or the coffee
cold, and weak.