"When dawn spreads its paintbrush on the plain, spilling purple... ," Songs of the Pioneers song from TV show "Wagon Train." Dawn on the mythic Santa Fe Trail, New Mexico, looking toward Raton from Cimarron. -- Clarkphoto. A curmudgeon's old-fashioned newspaper column, cross-breeding metaphors and journalism and art, for readers in 150 countries.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Saturday morning, long ago--poetry

In a crowded coffee shop
on a drizzly Saturday morning
I sit alone
sipping on my thoughts
as my coffee and muffin grow cold.

My friend
must have missed our rendezvous
so I’m hungry
for the crumbs of chatter
that scatter off nearby tables
where companions
drink of each other.

“Warm your coffee up, Mister?”
asks the waitress.
Yes, but I’d rather see my reflection
in my friend’s brimming eyes
instead of the shallow, soon-depleted liquid.

She once wrote: “I know this:
the amount of time you spend
with someone doesn’t necessarily
relate to how important they are to you.”
Like caffeine, there are a few people
you can never get enough of,
because even a sip is
a stimulant for present tense.
Her absence makes me brood in past tense.

Suddenly a bell tinkles as the opening door
nudges it back and forth.
I look up to see her distinct form
silhouetted against the light,
and I exhale with relief-joy.
“How about a cup of coffee?”
I ask, expectantly, already knowing
the unspoken answer is, “Of course.”

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