Wednesday, June 13, 2007


By John Grey

You may not get your coffee after all.
You have a cup but the water's been
sixty years boiling.
That's what comes of wearing a red dress
with red hair and sitting beside some guy
with face half hidden by a gray hat
who hasn't spoken a word in all that time.
And what about the fool at the far
end of the counter.
He doesn't even have a cup.
And the white-capped mug behind the counter.
Bending down to reach for something,
nothing most likely.
No deliveries that day
or any day since.
The diner has no door.
And it's always night.
And everyone's anonymous.
So better the coffee never does arrive.
Who wants to drink alone?

Poet John Grey lives in Providence, Rhode Island. His latest book is “What Else Is There” from Main Street Rag. He has been published in Agni, Hubbub, South Carolina Review and The Journal Of The American Medical Association.

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