Fork in the Road.

Take a load off baby,
and ask me for coffee.
We’ll be warm and listen to soft jazz
while the windows cry with the
sky’s tears.
We’ll tell stories of old;
my trip to Chile,
your work in the marines.
We’ll talk,
we’ll listen,
we’ll laugh until the
last drop.
Last drop
is gone,
time to move on, baby.
Grab your suitcase, mount your peaked white hat,
stand on your black shiny shoes.
I rise in my sweatpanted glory
and say Until Next Time.
You dash out the door into your truck
and head towards the train station,
towards Iraq,
towards war and Hell and hate.

But I faked you,
I’m not going anywhere –
I get myself
another duo expresso
and add a dash of whiskey
from my secret pocket.
I sit in your chair.
It’s still warm.
The windows still cry.
I still listen.