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.