I sit amidst the clinking
of cups on saucers,
the sound of sips and slurps;
swamped by the buzz
of strangers' chatter,
I watch her – this waitress.

She moves about the room
like an automaton;
aims for an aloofness
she almost achieves,
but is belied by
her raging eyes.

Deep green and enormous,
they betray her melancholy;
scream an anger so intense
I nearly need to look away.

I wish she'd drop the tray she carries –
smashed china and scalding water
a chance to breach this distance.

I'd reach for her trembling hand,
offer words of reassurance
with my eyes and a snatch of smile.
Together we'd gather the broken bits
and bin them; soak up the water
with wads of blue paper; ignore
the noise of onlookers.

But, however brittle,
she's seamless as a sphere;
she drops nothing, and I
can only do the same,

my long-desired coffee
sitting stagnant in my stomach
like a stone.