by Herbert Foster Kaufman
Midnight sitting at the end of a white and scribble Formica bar,
almost alone,
Two old Spanish women,
are also in this long one-room pool hall bar,
one is working, the other is keeping her company,
we are all drinking coffee.
Your nights drive me to these places,
a random silence alone in my room,
can take the air from my lungs.
my gloves, my hat, my scarf, my coat, my keys,
my life full of sorrow.
Your nights drive me to bad coffee and good company,
your absence is smoke in my face,
ice water pouring down upon my chest,
cold teeth in the wind cutting into my ears harder the faster I go.
We all agree it is a dreadful night,
particularly the air.
We stare at the darkness out the window as if it were the sky,
we are thankful to not be lost in it.
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Herbert Foster Kaufman has published short fiction and poetry in The Underwood Review, Sugar Mule, Cherry Bleeds, Wasted Space, Errata, Thought Magazine, Outsider Ink, Gothic Fairy Tales, Me Three, and Caveat Lector. He is the author of A Testament to Grace, a novel of lust and evil, available on Amazon.
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A very evocative piece. I could feel the loneliness and the night, plus the weather that only the city of San Francisco can produce. “Ill bet it was winter time, too”. Day or night it’s is still a fabulous experience.
Mr. Kaufman should become one of your “regulars”