COFFEE TALK

No more for me, after three
Cups gone and a wounded crease
Had distressed his brow; a
Shrill interrogatory leaning
Toward a row had begun.
A clicking overhead fan failed
To stir the smoke from the greasy
Kitchen stove and the overstuffed ashtray
Between us as we talked, and
One cigarette more, and another
Cup of coffee to keep the talk off the floor,
To keep the buzz on; his talk turned
To war and the greedy multi-nationals
And mourning for the dead, the
Unnecessary dead; it’s the fear
And irrational that prevents
Our own perfectible nature,
So he says, from looming into light,
From canceling the debt
Of ages of despair, of countless injustice
And doubtless his own rage; the coffee
Does not help his burden to assuage.

© Celeste Plowden 2010