Tuesday, May 25, 2010


Leather briefcase beside her foot,
she reaches for the sweetner
on the counter in front of her,
tears its top open
and pours it into her coffee.

She thinks of the meetings
that crowds her day,
stretches her back,
lifts the half and half container
and pours some into her cup.

She remembers the old café
down the street from her flat.
After she drank the coffee,
her stomach folled and cramped
like a tempest at sea.
She rushed to the hospital
in a cab, missed
her big presentation
and lost her promotion.

As she looks out of the window
at a woman stepping
out from between
two parked cars near
the sidewalk in front of the café,
she hears a car horn sound
and tires screech.

She jumps, spills her coffee
then looks across to see
an old man on a dilapidated porch
wave in her direction.

She turns, looks around her
and shakes her head.

She scoops up a lid,
pushes it on the coffee cup,
wipes her hands with the napkin,
bends, picks up
her briefcase and anchors the strap
to her shoulder.

Coffee in hand,
she pushes the glass door
and steps out onto the sidewalk.

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