I would never generally assault anyone with unwanted poetry, but this caught my attention in the best kind of way a few weeks ago.
the poet doesn't seem to have a website or a book- which is a shame
Coffee Break
For J.S
The mind slides, eliding colours, faces, words,
but I'm almost sure it was raining that afternoon-
at least something wrinkled the edges of my paper,
left the slippery signatures of soaking boots
on the floor tiles by the door, rapped hard
against the windows of the mock-Georgian
cafes
where we
huddled in a corner, the non-smokers.
For half an hour you sat there fingering the handle
on your coffee mug, picking the chips of chocolate
out of a muffin, muttering Goethe or Brecht.
And for half and hour I sat watching the ringed stains
of cappuccino creep down the inside of your cup,
a less-than-precise metronome for our conversation,
or rather the tickle and stop of your voice.
If my memory serves me, as it sometimes does,
between three and four that Saturday afternoon
I spoke just the once, to tell you, to promise you
I'd never, never place the word 'love' in a poem,
that it could only rest in a line, on the tongue, diluted.
Now, through the many coffees, the many phone calls,
here it is, that word breaking my word. This once. For you.
David Francis Taylor
