have to

Keys jingle in loose grip, sneaking through the front door and trying not to let the furred moths sneak their way from the lit porch lights and on into home; upstairs, a quick pat upon the snoozy dog, and directly to the bathroom, hiding in the one place where light at a late hour is appropriate.

Just another night home after eight hours of lonely working; pulling the espresso, mixing expensive drinks, pumps of syrup and milk all needing to be wiped up, again and again with the same stained white with single navy striped rag.

Stripping from the rotten clothes, in the light, before the well lit mirror, the aroma of the work's kitchen stoked with three bags of freshly baked chicken, cold espresso, hazelnut and vanilla; all the while talking to the dog through the door to calm her from barking.

I am naked, never clean from that eight hour closing shift.

So, I regard my face, the new acne, sticking out my tongue and reading the stains upon the pink and white and bumps of taste. There is coffee, lukewarm, Italian Roast tossed with vanilla, hazelnut, leftover half and half, masked by two recent cigarettes, the last Pall Malls of the pack.

I have to spend more money, the six dollars and eighty-six cents of tip.

I have to close again, work a full day, open, than break.

I have to do something so much more.

I have to sleep.