The Morning Latte
By Brandon Palzkill
He sits on the park bench
sipping his latte,
thinking of her,
his one and only.
An unclaimed cup
warms the seat beside him;
cooling; unwanted;
coffee without a purpose;
doomed to exile.
Pedestrians amble by,
caught up in their
day to day affairs,
and care not
for the vacant cup.
To him, the cup is love;
he watches it, wistfully,
as sorrowful strings of steam
escapes its pierced lid;
signs of its haunted loneliness.
He remembers the days
when the cup would be claimed,
and she would smile behind
her morning latte,
but colder days have come
and her smiles
are no longer for him;
the latte’s left freezing,
wishing for her kiss.
A trembling hand reaches out;
he follows it to her,
the one who got away.
She offers a smile to him;
a peace offering to warm
his insides,
as the welcomed drink
will warm hers.
she sits beside him
and everything is right.
Once again,
they share the park bench
and a smile,
they share lattes and warmth,
a crisp January morning,
but most of all,
they share their hearts.
