A faded red tablecloth
With an unsightly mustard stain
Right down the middle
The heat is stifling
And even the plastic flowers are dying
I steel myself against
Glancing at my watch
Yet the seconds tick sonorously
In my head.
Two chairs, two coffee cups
He has not come.
Not yet.
Chin cupped in my palm
I pour milk
And coffee
And sugar
And stir
At the pace of the fan
Rotating laboriously
Beside the wilted potted palm.
The chair screeches
As I move it away
From the window
And sip the coffee
Bitter.
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4 comments:
What is it that does not rhyme ? For all of it is a true.
And I've already told u what i think about this post.
none of it rhymes.
i like your not-rhyming poems. specially this one... it's like you captured the seconds. yes, like rhea says, all of it is true... there's an integrity about it that i can't place.
my dad likes your entire blog a lot. thought it was by some 30-something journalist or author.. and he cannot stop raving about this one in particular. what fun family dinners are becoming.
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