Seven Steps

Photo by Rockin Robin

​It’s not 
​that he can’t 
walk up the stairs.
He just wonders if he should.
He reflects at the fifth step. She
will be waiting at the table with 
two hands holding the tea cup, 
as if the cooled porcelain could 
still give her warmth, as if his 
embrace could, either.
The frayed edges 
of his jeans 
slosh
like mops, 
heavy with the weight
of water while the toe of his boot
pushes the snow back 
and forth.
With seven steps,
she’ll see him then.
He’ll be seven hours late--
​again.
Seven years of cooled porcelain.

Published at Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY (2/19/16)