By Louis Faber
He knew she had a special
meaning for him the first time
he saw her, from his usual seat
by the window in the diner, waiting
for his bagel and cream cheese,
and she at the table along
the window of the Starbucks across
the street, which might as well
have been an ocean, so unlikely
was either to make a crossing.
By the third time she had noticed
him, and offered a polite wave,
which he gladly returned, each
assuming it was an act of civility,
each, at least he, hoping it could be more.
He thought, briefly, about dashing
across the street and meeting her,
but he was no fan of coffee, less
by far of what Starbucks served,
and their bagels, well enough said.
So they went on with waves and nods,
until the day he looked and she
wasn’t there, and he knew she had
moved on without him, left him behind
or found a place with good coffee.
You place the shroud
over my head,
it is dark, but I
can still touch her cheek.
You cut off
my fingers, leaving
only stumps, but I
can still taste her tears.
You pull out
my tongue, there is
only bitterness, but I
can hear her morning laugh.
You drown me
in a sea of noise
nothing breaks the din, but I
smell her sweetness.
You fill the room
with the acrid smoke
tearing at my nostrils, but I
can remember her love.
About the poet:
Louis Faber’s work has previously appeared in Atlanta Review, Arena Magazine (Australia), Exquisite Corpse, Rattle, Eureka Literary Magazine, Borderlands: the Texas Poetry Review, Midnight Mind, Pearl, Midstream, European Judaism, Greens Magazine, The Amethyst Review, Afterthoughts, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, among many others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.