Chameleon in a Coffee Shoppe

I sit there,

Every day—

The same seat,

The same time,

The same

            Exact

Way

(With my arms crossed and my back pressed into the cushion of the couch).

I blend in now, I suppose:

The waiter has my order ready before I walk in the door:

A simple coffee,

Black.

I’m so used to being overlooked here—

In my painting jeans and drab turtlenecks I suppose

                                                            That I ask for it.

But somehow I

            Hate

How,

In this colorful coffee shop,

I am

Synonymous with the couch.