Robin Amy Bass


Cold cup of coffee
Wait by the phone
You do not call me
You are not home

I hear your voice in the distance
You say
You don’t need people who get in your way

You have your reasons to go it alone
Justified theories still caught in the zone
Cordoned off boundaries that just shut me out
Leave to me to worry what this is about

Hot cup of coffee
Is what I prefer
When we’re together
And I watch you stir

I watch your eyes right beside me
They say
Somehow, you’ve managed to start a new day

You talk of years that you sat on a shelf
You talk of war and you talk of bad health
Sometimes you whisper and sometimes you shout
Sometime you ask me what this is about

Lukewarm my daydreams
Have faded away
Sometimes I’m not sure why I choose to stay

My cup of coffee
Not empty not full
I want to shout it’s enough!
This is bull!

Pour out the coffee I think I’ll drink tea!
And just like you, I’ll just think about me
Your self-absorption soaks up like a sponge
It can get tricky, for now you expunge

All of the cross talks – I’m silenced. It seems,
you have just managed
To catch all my dreams and you expose them

Distort them and say

Sorry I told you – it’s just a bad day!

I am still thirsty – I can’t look at you
It’s just a bad day – If only you knew
How I am waiting for one that is good
I am so tired of MISUNDERSTOOD

Hot cup of coffee – one lump or two
I cannot tell who is waiting for who
Telephones ringing – I put down the cup
I hear your voice – and I ask you,
“what’s up?”

Author’s Note: My cell phone rang this morning. I have assigned Ben the Marine Hymn ring. But since he is in the hospital, I know his cell is off. Still, I’m sure it was that ring. Anyway, I call him back and he says it wasn’t him. He’s waiting for the Doctor. I know he doesn’t want to talk. He is not a morning person. I make sure I don’t call him until noon or later, unless it is essential. I say “OK”. And I hang up. He has been threatening to leave the hospital. He doesn’t like one of the Doctors. I don’t blame him, but I’m nervous. He has lost 60 pounds. He is on an IV and painkillers. He is really in no shape to go anywhere yet. I know he is anxious, scared, and angry and sick… Nothing I say is right. It is frustrating for both of us!

I always write in the morning, but now the poem comes out entirely different!

History repeats itself… No-one’s in the hospital… but I’m still saying the wrong thing.

August 17, 2005