The Dark
She cradled the coffee cup
her eyes on the door
each entrant receiving an expectant glance
but each time
it was not the one
her glance then
did a sad swan dive
into the swirling mist
above the coffee cup
she hoping to see a future there
in its foaming liquid
which would foretell
he would come
he would come.
She shifted her weight
to one side then the other
lifting her hand
to signal
for another cup to come
to sit beside the faulty one
which had erred;
he'd be there in a minute or two.
But he wasn't.
The new cup would correct that fault
new fumes would swirl
and tell a different tale
of one where he rush through the door
talking of late planes, cab fares
lost cell phones, eager anticipations
breathless sorrys, apologies and regrets
all to lie there on the white linen table top
on which was arrayed two dead mugs
of now cold and stale Colombian roast,
their porcelain profiles lined up
watching a third arrive
in the lengthening night
looking up to encounter my eyes
looking upon her tabled scenario;
she quickly looked away
and then back again
wondering I think,
if I was his messenger
had news of him
who should be in the Lausaus seat
opposite her
surely to rise from the dead
ever expected
but never arrived.
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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