He left her at the carousel table, chair against the rim.
She’d finished her tea. He’d finished his coffee.
They’d been staring for days, picking & peeling labels,
Blues on the graffitied top, cracks revealing the pine
Floor, hundred-year old native wood, hand-hammered.
He felt so small he looked into a plank nail-head
For his reflection. He saw nothing, save a rusted pit.
He caught a glimpse in the wavy glass as he walked out.
She’d given up on him. He’d given up on the fantasy.
They’d been drifting for years, colliding & parting,
Blues below the white caps, the river revealing the sky,
Clouds, hundreds swollen with tears, denying nirvana.
He felt so small he looked into an eye of the smallest fish
For his reflection. He saw nothing, save a familiar black.