Waiting Room

I retrace heavy hexagonals

Cezanne’s bright peaches for coasters

Someone’s nine am coffee ring still wet

I wonder if the woman who left it was also left, hoping

Like me, searching tirelessly,

Trying to see her husband above the waste

 

Did she smirk at the hodgepodge of small Asian tables

with yard sale Colonial figurines and

Dingy striped drapes of cream falling out of their cast iron pull backs

Covering windows she couldn’t see anyway around him

 

I wonder if she sat streaming like me,

Hearing the nervous concertos, wincing at faded beach photos and the

Reprints of pottery made by Greeks

Waiting for counseling, shifting her feet

 

Maybe she also had a Fine Arts degree

That gathered dust on her étagère

Maybe she also traded back bottles for bristles after the affair?

Maybe she was also to blame, screaming his name

While her husband smiled up to her from her feet?

 

Or, maybe she is lucky like me

Still Life with Apples and Peaches,

Four rosy faced cheeks bent on kissing their Daddy

Maybe she would also leave her dark lover behind a thousand times

Or maybe she was waiting for me….

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