Drenched in misunderstanding,
her eyes strayed to a young man
at the counter chatting
with the waitress
in blue ribbon flirtation.
The New York times
next stool over
seemingly lonely and
out of place—
at least of state.
Heart sad and bankrupt,
she sifts through words
he’s speaking
to the table.
She looks
for a few nuggets of gold
to come from his chair
across from her.
At the counter,
a twenty dollar bill
left
for a lone breakfast, and
the stranger rises
tripping
on himself,
as he brings the paper
to sit close
to his body,
and then smiles
red faced before leaving.
He has noticed her.
She is leaving also, even
in her stillness.
Twenty dollars
worth of gratitude
missing,
as she turns over the tiles
of the scrabble game
of words
and tries
to find some semblance
of agreement
with which to place
her letters, but
they don’t fit.
Her tiles line up
to the word ‘love’
but there is no room
on the board
to place it.