Drinking Coffee Alone

People I have loved keep dying.

They lull you into a sense of reassuring

permanence then stop showing up, 

chatting, breathing, being. I accept 

no blame, never said anything overly 

offensive and intend to be here indefinitely. 

But it’s not easy to replace the quitters. 

Other people already have their quota

of friends, are spoken for, booked up, 

disinterested or occasionally even repelled 

for inexplicable reasons. You sense it.

I’m nice enough, on my better days. 

I may find one of my neighbours intriguing 

but zero reciprocation. Not so much as 

a nod if we meet at mail boxes so no 

replacements for any of the once dear-to-me

disappeared deadbeats. New people are being 

created every day but they’re too young 

to have much to talk about so adults only 

need apply. On the cafe strip I stoop to asking 

tethered dogs about the meaning of death 

but that can spook over-sensitive dog owners 

who pop bookmarks into novels and move 

on moodily. Billions of people on this planet 

but here I am, drinking coffee alone, some-

times within touching distance of other 

homo sapiens but I’ve learned through 

experience that I really must not touch. 

People avoid eye contact despite my shrugs, 

grimaces, muttered speculation about why 

some inconsiderates just up and die.