It’s Been a Minute

by Steven Rea

The smell of coffee is wafting
as smells do—they waft—and this blend,
the artisan roaster announces,
is called Ancient History: redolent of old regrets,
hints of limerence and subtle notes of
treasured objects, long gone.
It’ll get your taste buds buzzing, this brew,
perhaps it will even make you cry.

The last time they were together
there was talk about nothing,
the mundane exploded,
shards of gossip and did you know that actor
used to go out with that lead singer
from that French trance band, dance
band, not my bandwidth,
but I’ll try that sandwich.

A single tear tracks down
her cheek, someone could capture it in a tiny ceramic
bowl. There’s that Man Ray photograph,
“Glass Tears,” the model, in closeup, eyes
looking up towards whatever, five tiny droplets
dotting her face, mimicking sorrow,
parodying the false drama of a broken dream,
a broken way to say hello and goodbye.