A Cup Of Coffee

I keep trying to write the most important poem.
About boys who stay away
and mothers who find themselves loving them
despite their vacant beds.
About sad songs that are
beginning to skip because they’re played too often.
About frustration and nostalgia
and sadness.
About the things I always talk about.
I run around this city in my pajamas and sneakers
doing errands and trying to look important, adult.
Everything is a question. Everything is like I’m
twelve again, taking out a hand mirror, studying
the new parts of myself.
How spooked I was
to realize I was becoming a woman. When
I was younger I couldn’t keep track of how often
strangers would thumb my face, talk about my eyes,
touch my braided hair. Say, “how pretty.” Say,
“aren’t you just the most precious thing?” I haven’t
been touched like that in years. The strangers
stay away, but there is a person across seven seas who
I know better than myself.