Easy/Awkward Goodbye
The café radio coughs another tune,
all static and yeah-yeah,
as I brush salt from the table.
A woolly hat with greasy whiskers
clangs his fork against a plate,
tugging at the creases in my brow.
Your eyes land on my pursed lips
and I realise they’re green,
not blue, and have been all along.
A drip of condensation thumps the windowsill
as I mutter something about tomorrow—
and your bus is coming soon.
Michael Rush is a hidden poet. He strives to preserve his secrecy as he is most comfortable in the margins of life, and finds his muse most active when he remains there. Michael was recently published on Snakeskin and Napalm and Novocain. Twitter: @mrushpoetry