I love finding old Word documents with funny poems from 2008…if you can’t think of anything to write, just listen.
There is conversation.
Well, small talk.
Me: making no direct
You: probably wondering why.
We repeat empty, colorful details about our
While I fiddle with my dangling yellow earrings. They resemble
A turkey like a cloud might. Stuffing and all.
You say something witty about gravy but I just blink
And sip my coffee.
I mumble “sorry” and you stare. The sorry is for what I imagine,
Written above your eyebrows.
I laugh because that is the only option. You look serious
And continue talking gravy.
Can Whipped Cream Curdle?
Chemistry homework on Saturday night after a
day of work. There is a waitress from—
I can’t remember the name of that restaurant—
sitting at the next table with a man telling a story
in a deep, quiet and enigmatic voice.
That restaurant serves creamy tomato soup,
probably cooked with
eight cups of half and half. It doesn’t seem to curdle although maybe
that happens later. Like in your gut.
Her head is tilted his way, lips pursed like a dollop of
whipped cream—maybe they serve that too. On top of
tiramisu or apple pie confined in air-tight double layered
plastic wrap and delivered in white crates.
“…buy a house…have some kids…” the context out of
conversation piles on,
lips spewing candy flirtation. A
fire truck and ambulance siren in the background. “…guess I’ll have to
start ten businesses…9 out of 10 fail.” The half and half
soup is distracting because scientific notation never equals
The man shifts his coffee shop chair closer and he
can smell the wintergreen gum she is casually chewing between
pursing. Purse. Chew. Purse. Chew. She laughs and his words
purr like a gray wool sweater.
And I remember why I came to
the coffee shop without uttering a word to anyone besides
Then I go home.