It’s been a few days since I posted any poetry here. So here’s one I wrote awhile back, then found this week tucked in a book on quantum physics that I didn’t finish reading. (The Fabric of the Universe by Brian Greene. Amazing first half.) I was using an early draft as my book mark. I thought it was worth editing and sharing.
Answered For
I understood I think. I mean
when the late 20s teacher with bleached
tips and crimped zags leaves a room key
at the seat next to mine, John’s,
she covers the card key’s blush
with a yellow sticky note. She knows
I’m watching. I can’t help being
what she’s made me, accomplice conspirator
against John’s wife of fifteen years.
My role earned this glance, I hope.
When John returns with coffee,
she’s gone and he leans over to show
me her note: “Guess we’re broke up
officially.” My look must condemn him,
a seven day conference acquaintance.
He’s mostly name tag after all—
John Something—I always have to look.
We start conversations at the chest
level, looking for each other’s hearts
and settling for names, first
and last, and our home towns.
All week we’ve carefully skirted depth,
waiting two days to dig up
bent photos of kids and wives
posed for someone’s camera.
“She’s four and he’s ten months,”
I confess, missing my family
the way I miss coffee on hectic days
when a midmorning headache reminds me
I left my travel mug next to the sink.
Cheap workroom coffee dulls the pain
until my wife asks later, “How
can you forget it?” I never know
the answer. Those evenings I’ll find
my travel mug scrubbed clean inside
so the steel shines white. Everyone knows
coffee tastes better from a clean cup.
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