SPILT DEMERARA SUGAR

Cigarette smoke
still clings to the air

as if sketching
the woman who is

no longer there.

A cluttered ashtray
gives evidence of her

distress.

Magenta lipstick
kissing each

viciously stubbed
out cigarette

as if they were
the twisted corpses

of the minutes
ticked into hours.

She has left him
- a note

that I
a stranger to them

and to this affair
can only guess

& conjecture at

hold
like a piece of evidence

between forefinger
& thumb

this clue as to what's
gone wrong.

'Frank(you ******* you)  
if you've come...
...I'm gone! '

'You're just an excuse
for a man! '

Just then
a wild eyed man

dashes in
(looks...looks again)  

dashes out.

This is more
than likely

the noted Frank

but it's too late
to hand him it.

I take a
cautious sip

of my Latte

(let it cool
a bit)  

chase with
an idle fingertip

the Demerara sugar

spilt across
the table top

in the shape of
Antarctica.