watching

The way you sat across the cafe bar and didn't look

up for 15 minutes reminded me of the time I

fell off of the balance beam twice during the qualifiers

at Ormond Beach and knew both my parents were

still waiting, watching, hoping. -- I hated beam.

Lost in a regretful thought of words

you didn't say, visits you didn't make,

calls not returned, love you didn't let yourself

requite. -- You hated that For Rent sign.

She may as well have put that faded yellow sign

on her heart, and you moved out quickly.

You couldn't look up, but took a slow sip

of the strong full coffee in front of you.

I remember when I used to wish I was

in that cup being taken into your heart warmly.

But I've never been as strong as that coffee,

and she was Kenya, Ethiopia, Sumatra,

offering all of their boldness and spice to you as she

drifted down Orange Avenue every day toward her

ever-changing destination: but she always came back

to her yellow studio apartment to breathe,

and to love you. -- She hated that apartment.

I saw you lift your eyes to the cars rambling

down the street outside. Once we rode home from a

party together and my hair was frizzing wildly;

I imagined you cringing when you

turned to say goodbye and knew you

should never talk to me again. -- My hair hated me.

Now this room is cold and so am I,

and I would like to ask you for your jacket,

the one with the patches on the elbows

and the pretentious collar, folded down.

I imagine you will hold my hands and warm them;

But in real life I watch you hold your

waitress's hand and smile as though

you were imagining warming her instead.

--I hate that waitress.