Irony after the end of a relationship |
Sitting where the coffee comes Sitting where the coffee comes Scribbling here, —when did it where did it how did it Turn…… Ma Shelley’s at 2:00 am. It is my home, my niche, my dwelling… …the place where I presently reside in the morning hours when sleep does not come or I slowly push it away. After four month, either could be accurate The maroon-forest décor is circa 1992 Booth bench fabric, the embossed pattern now slick from its 24 hour nature Maroon to mauve to pink Forest to light pea green Each night I visit my table. Nancy knows when to bring coffee Coffee flows to me, the oxygen I breath to survive another night Her and I’s rhythm perfected during past hours Trading small talk and looks A few conversations comparing past mistakes and regrets For all the “no regrets” speak, she recounts them everywhere Metallic cloud, the chemical quaff Tool and die workers came in 11:30, after the shift Talking quietly, over there, sitting where the coffee comes Its their home, their dwelling, an actual escape their stories I hear nightly, My comfort now, Recycling of repetitive lives — Romantic, drawn out, neither The secret tenor, the closeted playwright Yet not for this story, not their stories It is mine and Russell’s Months pass, post mortem begins a loss for words and a loss for thoughts and I still sit where the coffee comes there were fights over his smoking, over my movies, the basis of music and heaven and the devil And he would speak of beauty found in a sitcom from the 1970’s That had only 9 episodes and poor acting and ridiculous dialogue All within which he reveled And I would argue that camp and culture were not equivalent “are you high?—no, roger moore was the only true bond, how could you ever think that Sean Connery compares” “Robert Frost is still potent, Jackson-best president, the most underappreciated, guitar genius—Roy Buchanan and who did you vote for in the last election? “ “In credible!” “Put that out, I can’t get your fumes out of my scarves” There were…Struggles over motives over the night hours I would wake at 6, he at 12, One off at 3, other off at 11:30 Saturday night, one would budge, then the other Sweetness exchanged with a trade of patterns Yet stubbornness consumed that quiet ritual Two covers, never enough, freezing Frozen, shaking by morning, cursing when waking, Chaos and tension mistaken for love, or taking over love Open and open and more open…almost there, Then banter decomposed into destruction Its gone- Closed. Completely. Cup is empty, Nancy brings more A carafe in one hand and an ashtray in the other Sitting where the coffee comes, I light another and let the paper absorb the blue |