is quiet, far off,
reading a book on religion
in the corner of the bookstore.
It's February and I am cold.
I have reason to start this conversation.
"Who can possibly read all this?" I say
with all those poems on the shelf
behind me, competing for my attention.
She looks up and smiles.
We talk for a while
on the edge of a flirt,
but our words grow serious
about absent lovers
and desperate longings.
I reach for the cream to sweeten my coffee
and barely touch her hand
as if I can stir April
and feel the coming of Spring rain.
Now a few drops.
I look down.
I look at her again.
She mutters something about time, and hunger,
gets up, and walks away.
Will I ever make it to April?

Copyright 1996 Charles E. Cote. All rights reserved.