The Restaurant on 8th Avenue

The woman tucked into the corner table
is waiting for her date, I’m guessing.
She looks at me then back to check
her watch and picks up her phone.

She could be wondering what if
I might have gone out with another
or I might have married five years ago
or I’m middle aged and can’t do this scene.

Twenty minutes later, I pass on my way back.
She is chatting and laughing and does not
look at me and has no clue nor would she care
to know why my heart is screaming.


*Poet’s Notes:

WARNING: Don’t confuse the artist with the art. That’s the proof of genuine art — if it transcends the merely personal.
(I’m not in distress of any sort. ;-))

Written while on a walk on 8th Ave. Smallish paper was in my wallet.

A pic of the original draft is below. If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

new doc 114_1

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