They have taken away the chair
where you would have sat
My fingers are cold
wrapped around an overpriced coffee
The waiter asks if I need the bill
and I am still waiting to begin
(Perhaps you have forgotten
perhaps dead, or asleep)
The busy smooching of valentines cloy the air
and I have picked your rose bare
you are not here
I silently gather my warrior words
and wait
© 2/1992, Meg Pickard.
