The cafe cold,

The coffee old,

The dusty stock

On shelves not sold.

The rusty sign,

The empty line,

The day turned bad

That had been fine.

The milk turned sour

The minute, an hour

The weevils in

The bread and flour.

The sour cream,

The sleep filled scream

The broken remnants

Of the dream.

The cafe cold,

The coffee old,

The dusty stock

On shelves not sold.

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