Morning Coffee

Short poem that pretty much explains itself.

Your coffee cup waits.
Steam rises, curls into tiny fists to beat the air
where your mouth should be.

I’m more patient,
accustomed to waiting while your drinks cool.

In that milky pool I catch the reflection of my
too-small eye,
beat my fist against the table,
and in ripples resemble one of those doe-eyed darlings
you wish I were.

Feet appear first,
descend the stairs with a trace
of clumsiness from last night’s pursuits. 

Silent, you hug me good morning and I’m sorry,
but it feels more like I’m stretching
to wrap my own arms around myself.