Counter Light

The diner keeps its small noon under glass.

Outside, rain threads the road into black stitches.

Inside, the cups turn white whenever the woman lifts one and sets it down again.

She has come back for the coat. That is what she says.

The waitress nods. The man at the till wipes the same clean place with the same clean cloth.

Nobody asks whose coat.

The window holds them all in one bright sentence, then stops.

There is a bus idling beyond the pumps. There is a line of light running straight toward her shoes.

She looks at it. She does not step.

Some griefs are public enough to order coffee.

Some griefs stay under the counter, warm from the machine, waiting for a hand that will not reach down.