There,
he wonders if there is
too much cream coiling in
tendrils, swirling.
He peels the cup from a large penny-stain
and sups at sweet heat, too sweet,
too sweet.

If only it was of the richest brown!
Bitter and scalding - and it becomes!
Clearer and clearer it becomes
in porcelain mug, creamy.
And the world would be most wonderful, then.
The world would be wonderful
once more, again, the rain would once more dance
again, just as the coffee
must trace young
delicate rings on
placemats and the upper bits
of lips-

but the rain outside is heavy and stale, and the stains
are leaking, leaking pennies
Still, he stares into his coffee
sitting plainly on the table
and thinks.

So furl the velveteen curtains,
worn and patchy,
hanging 100 feet up in the rafters,
brushed to the side like hair.

Looking out, you can barely see the shadows
behind the spotlight.

A sea of people shift and shuffle
eagerly in red cushy chairs,
and they can't seem to keep
their arm rests from falling apart.

Your feet make the wooden floor groan;
the place is so tired.

And suddenly hands collapse onto each other,
and onto thighs to push themselves up;
applause beats the air, is thick and relentless,
and you're alone on the stage, beaming in cherry lipstick.

Grief will fill your mouth
the day you look back at the photograph
collecting dust on your mother's nightstand
and find you've forgotten
your old face.