No Use Crying Over a Lost Cappuccino, Camp St.

A freshly bought cup of coffee
is at once a wet bar of soap
crushed and lathering
between desperate hands, battling—
like General Custer—
unsuccessfully.

An elegant dive towards pavement,
free at last! bursting, rushing, trembling,
tumbling, thank God almighty,
tides of caffeine, flowing,
a cordless bungy suicide

or perhaps righteous free fall liberation?
The salvation sought in the swallow
could be, too,
in that very spread
insulting the wailing sidewalk

while the spiller’s hands
are curling away, white as foam,
vanishing into pockets and sleeves.

But what of the sprawl?

This hazelnut mess,
smatter of Brasilia’s best beans?

Will the rain, nature’s janitor, take care of this folly?

A piece of litter can be tossed, a doorstep swept,
a runny nose caught and put in time out.

But how long till it rains?
How long, screeches the sidewalk, till it rains?