Grace Shaw
The neon sign
Radiates blue-rock-candy,
Painting the snow an alien hue,
Colder than Neptune,
While I wait.
Clinks and swishes resonate
From the back room.
The fading luster of late-night bulbs
And waning radio ballad
Leave only fragrant ghosts of coffee and chai.
An elderly woman
With frosted hair and ashen skin
And arctic, azure eyes
Wraps a woolen scarf around her neck,
Slowly, thrice, and leaves.
Feet dangling and neck craning
I made introductions between my nose
And the window pane,
Scanning for your shape through
Cake-batter snowflakes.
Clumps of sticky dough
Sift thickly earthwards.
If I ate them all,
Maybe you’d be there.
