When I drink
my Kahlua Mudslide
through a straw—
it’s iced—
I saw her sit down.
She didn’t have a coffee,
an espresso, or a mochatini.
She had her eyes.
So young, surrounded by
a mask carved from leather,
baked in sun and dusk.
I keep my eyes
on the laptop screen,
trying to write a poem,
or a word, or a line,
or at this point, even
just a letter.
But she’s staring at me—
through me, into me—
or at the mirror beside
me. What does she see
when she sees herself?
An old woman, alone
in a coffee shop not
drinking coffee?
A young girl, in love—
unable to tell if the heartbeat
is hers or his?
Counting wrinkles
and the wisdom carved
into her skin?
I look to her seat,
but she’s gone. A faint face
stretched across
the leather back seems
to smirk.
JKolasch
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