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Coffee,
by Anthony DiPietro

 
When evening coffee is suddenly done, and she comes
To my room (or only a scene I have set for her)
We talk of a time she believed I filled her half-moon soul,
A time we touched more often
And—shall I say it?—were more alike.
She kissed me once, and I hemmed and hawed,
Feeling her perfection hold mirrors to my flaws.
I know (does she?) we would have been together—
She was forgiving enough, if distracted
By decoys and obstacles in her path. I liked to tell her stars or suns
Adorn a half-moon better
Than such a tarnished stone as me—
And this wiped her belief away,
Crumbling her ideal into dust.
I stood in a wind that blew autumn
And kissed the particles goodbye,
Just as today, she works
With poems and the shapes of her eyes
To trample on my newfound disillusionment,
My skeptic cynicism.
(Impossible one should believe
The poet should be more like her,
The poet should be more like me.)
She writes of skies and fields sweet and wet,
While I am left with storms overturning trees.
This part of the night is called (unbeknownst
To her) Regret.

 

She is the last branch in this
Vertical white rock
Down which I lately slide,
And I clutch resolutely, grateful—but I have no other tools
To move the baffling burden of my weight
Back above the mark (where even I used to be,
She tells me), and she tells me
How atop the rock, beyond horizons I can see,
My throne next to hers awaits.
Anticipating this,
She promises to end her wandering travel,
Looks at me over the rim
Of her coffee cup—it is morning again—
And blows me her birthday wish just like a kiss.
My tears say Thank you;
I hope I get there too
.





Anthony DiPietro says:  having always been interested in language, storytelling and human drama, I began writing poetry at the age of fifteen. Currently on leave from Brown University, I have been studying English, philosophy and creative writing. A Providence, Rhode Island native, I am now spending time adventuring in southern California while exploring life and career options.


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