It was a simple roadhouse
on a quiet, winding country road.
The bare tabletop
was a harsh blue panelyte
and their chairs were mismatched;
his was a little rickety,
but none of that mattered;
patrons came and went
and their coffee grew cold
and the earth forgot
to turn on its axis
because they were immersed
in a conversation
that mattered
and didn’t.
(23 April 2011)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem