Untitled Prose Poem

I’m meeting you for coffee. You see me and wave me over. I tip my head and walk to where you’re sitting. You say that it’s good to see me, that I look good. I haven’t seen you in red before and I say that you always look good. Your hands are spanning a cinnamon cauldron-hot syrup, milk and cream. Too sweet to finish.


I see other customers over your shoulder. A solemn girl is sitting alone by the door, and a ravenous man by the window is devouring some kind of pastry. Thick lips steal bites, of a tooth-rot taste of folded almond cream. His mouth is dirtied with dustings of icing sugar and flakes of almond. He saves the crumbs for a wetted fingertip, and the girl watches her coffee go cold.


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