adventures in dysthymia

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Coffee, a poem

Coffee

Breakfast. Again, you did not
make enough coffee for both
of us. Too used to being
alone, I suppose, to pouring

out a cup or two for yourself
as you do your morning doings.
Each of those little acts
adds up to a performance

of life-goes-on, of work
now and we’ll see each other
later on, maybe tomorrow night?
Whatever. It’s all the same

to me, the guy going nowhere.
Right now, that road leads
through you and probably
past you to another

empty space, another roadside
stop where I will try to rest
and maybe find some change
for the coffee machine.

Stephen Brooke ©2012

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