Pure Coffee

why deal with this?
the busy streets fill
with haunted luncheon
freaks, their wisdom caught
in exhaust fumes and rants.

waiting, waiting,
my brain counts minutes,
then talks to itself.

your walk here,
just blocks, not miles,
your husband far away,
why do you fear?

shit, my coffee's cold,
and the breeze blows
menus across the square.
where are you?

you'll send another note,
right? full of sorrys
and whens and ifs and kids
throwing up, so we can't
meet, so we can't hold each
other and laugh and repair
this thing again.

goddam, I must get back
to work
and you're not here, you're
out there waiting for me to leave,
my patience a factor
as the one p.m. church bell
rings, and I must go.