 Photo by Robin Rolder 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) Comments are closed.
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