Moist

I find the table farthest from the fountain;
I already know the restroom is locked,
and the wet-lip coffee clerk would be
thinking about me peeing, the whole time.

Thoughts of my little revenge, handing him
back an ever-so-slightly damp key….

He’s left a bottle – impromptu vase – here
on this one table, an inch or so of water
and a fat sunflower, just starting to open.
Little waves jiggle in it as I write this.

Maybe next time then. I can wait.