Mid October (Poem)

A cup of coffee,

Too hot to drink.

He was reading Gandhi,

And she was in her ink.

What are you writing?

He wished to ask. But

voiceless he was— tongue biting

while butterflies danced in his gut.

Her deep-set caramel eyes

like honeysuckles in bloom.

Golden locks glistened as her

hand ran through a groom.

Up she left, amid the autumn day

vanishing into the nipping breeze,

but forgetting her papers at the cafe.

What if she really needs these?

Bolting out into the streets

down where sugar maples grow

And where the city and forest meets.

Where she went, goodness, I don't know.

Dashing like a spur-winged goose,

Papers in hand, flapping as wings

that grip like claws afraid to break loose

of the writings that he brings.

“Excuse me ma’am, I believe you

forgot these.” His breath was gone.

“I thought my journal missed a paper or two

For heaven sakes, thank you John.”

“My apologies, I asked the barista

for your name.” Her cheeks warmed like

apples and her eyes shifted east of

the forest, trailing like a hike.

“Really, um, thank you, I-uh, I

Have wondered about your writing, and of you

too.” A bashful smile, ever so sly.

“I’ll share it with you tomorrow, cafe at two?”

“Why yes, tomorrow, I’d be delighted!”

“Lovely,” she said and lovely is she,

Heels echoed in the shadows— nighted

While he went back to the cafe in a joyous spree.

A cup of coffee

Now too cold to drink.