The Crone – A poem.

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

One Reply to “The Crone – A poem.”

  1. This has great imagery. I can certainly identify with this woman, and know how her feelings might be reflected…

    Like

Thoughts? Comments? Let me know...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: