HOW I NEVER WANT TO HAVE COFFEE WITH YOU

by Anna Clarke

I’m reading, I suppose, and I notice

a middle aged couple sit down quietly

to butter their bagels. Their conversation

is limited to weather and the glare of the sun

hitting the window beside them.

I don’t think they’re tired,

I think they’ve just run out of things

to say. Silent on Saturday,

nothing but baked goods between them.

What happened here, somewhere

between her red curls and his long legs,

maybe found in college, a park,

a loud, smoky road-side bar.

I notice a fly that lands on their table.

They both try to brush it away, missing hands.

by Anna Clarke