David Boski writes

A cup of coffee

he walked by the room I was painting

and asked me if I wanted a coffee—

I declined.

we were in a vacant rental apartment,

repainting the walls before they installed the new floors.

he was an immigrant from Spain; rough around the edges,

always looking disheveled and tired,

perhaps from working too hard—

or too much.

we had previously met while we both worked for

another company and I brought him on to help me

with a few jobs I had coming up.  

he had a wife and two kids back home

whom he missed dearly—

he said he was working for them,

and sending back money every month.

I heard something in the apartment

and went to see what it was

as I thought he had left to go buy coffee—

and that’s when I saw him on his knees

with a card in his hand

chopping up a white powdery substance

on his phone.

“I thought you were going out for coffee”

‘no, no, coffee, COFFEE!’ he shouted grinning ear to ear

while holding up the phone.

I laughed and nodded,

understanding his plight—

and remembering all those times

I needed a little pick me up

myself.

Cocaine -- Shimon Okshteyn