Two Fifty

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a cup of coffee and a coffee grinder. pixabay

Poetry submission

by chantal laforge, contributor

Two Fifty

The world belongs to me

in increments of 2.50

because that’s the price of coffee.

In which case, 2:50 was 13 minutes

before I woke up and stayed awake,

thinking all the while of the smile

on your face that was never meant

for me. Maybe one day, that will

change. I used to be afraid of change,

which is usually 2.50, also, but it

doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

It is palpable, if not entirely

welcome, even when I wake

up in the middle of my peace, or

13 minutes later, give-or-take.

Maybe 2.50 is what it costs me

to fuel thought entirely and maybe

that will change for inflation and

restless nights show scattered signs

of life in me. But that’s alright.

Time advances. Your face

will change to someone else’s.

2:50 happens every morning.

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