No coffee. No cream nor sugar. Tea bags are gone. Just water from the tap.

Mornings used to be easy. Wake up. Heat up the kettle on the stove. Make coffee with a French press. She would have a cup of jasmine tea. Newspaper on the front porch.

They spoke of going off to Europe. Live like bohemians. Sit in Paris cafes and watch people pass by. Eat bread and stinky cheese. Foie Gras seared in a pan with butter and brandy. Wear funny hats.

He’d write her poems late at night while she slept. Short tales of heartache. Love and heartache. She’d ask if the poems were about them. He said, no. Told her they were stories about America. The couple in the poems represented the despair in our country. America was a symbol of all that could go bad if left unattended.

She would smile and say, that’s deep. Got anymore tricks up your sleeve? She’d  laugh.

And then, one day, he quit writing poems. He stopped telling stories. Began to think his midnight habit was silly. He resented her for this. The boyfriend knew she was the cause of his disillusionment. He swore he’d get back at her.

So, one day, he left. He stopped loving her. The girlfriend’s sharp tongue had pierced his soul.

He went from town to town in America. Traveling. Taking odd jobs here and there. Sleeping in homeless shelters. Eating sardines in oil from a can. He placed bits of them on a Saltine cracker. The young man thought he was being chic.

Poverty became this art form to him. This way of life. Taking busses and hitchhiking from coast to coast. He fell in love with the road. And she never left the nest.

As she got older, she wondered what had become of him. Even though she had married, she still thought of the hopeless poet. Then she’d laugh and shake her head while making coffee and hot tea. Kissing her husband and telling him to have a great day, hurry home. These words were said while adjusting his tie. The paper was on the front porch.

A dog was walked down the street. His shit left in yards.