Napkins

She hides behind her long
flannel skirt, secret and secluded with
a sheepish grin not to be forgotten she
struggles to make the coffee shop
before the bus, but this is going to
be one of those days, and the bus is
passing while she gathers her change
and napkins from a tin she drags
across the counter
in the little shop, burning one hand, digging
with another, lint collects under
her fingernails newly painted and
now chipped on lipstick cases;
the revolving door of vanity
circles through her pocketbook, the elusive
dime succumbs to the index finger and she
places it on the counter to finish the
transaction;

she burns her lip with a
nervous sip as the next customer
walks over her high heels scuffing
the toe, she ignores the intrusion and forces
the heavy door open to the street still
polluted by the fumes of public
transportation; the tail lights down
two blocks tease her ill timed actions, and
now she is left to wait with the cup drooling
hot mocha over its lip slowly
burning the lifeline off her
right hand, napkins sill in her left
useless and crumpled,

she fidgets in her nylons crooked
and riding up as her heels dig into
small pits in the concrete under a faded
bus stop sign;
then without malice
that time of the month shows up warm
and unwanted, though relieved she is
not pregnant again, perhaps;

the coffee
has cooled to satisfaction and soothes
and shrouds what is painful and embarrassing as
she walks home to change and call in sick before
a new bus can tempt her into urban slavery.