Hostages

Funny, but I like these early morning
coffee moments of depression.
One foot hanging from the wooden stool
sipping burned steam –
in the coffee house on the
cliffs of illumination.

Maybe I like watching the river that
flows right in front of my
round table for one.
Or perhaps it’s the sitting
half beached as it all goes over.

It’s interesting, those moments of witness
as clues wash by.
All things connected
this river must run circular.

I see warm flashes
of one last night’s romance –
You
then me –
us then others as
tributaries of whim connect rivers of
lives in limbo.

I laugh at the
pain because there’s no other remedy –
for early futile attempts at love is not
time to realize what you want;
merely the failure to capture
love’s shadowed essence within
its current host.