Coffee in hand, she sits on a train She smells a little like cinnamon and sage. She hears a voice, her heart in her mouth It isn’t him, as she fears. Absolutely no doubt. Amongst the loud hum, she can spy at herself So sad, so defeated, she’s like no one else. Tears spring to her eyes as she looks at her screen She’d been too busy living a Hemingway dream. She won’t call him again, as he doesn’t care She won’t let him in when he’s not really there. She won’t be his last and she wasn’t the first She isn’t the only girl to get hurt. So coffee in hand, she’s no longer forlorn For hell hath no fury like a good woman scorned.