Turning Poem by Peter Neil Carroll

I was a coffee man, straight shots
in the morning, eyes wide
like this fellow with slender hips
who steps from the yellow taxi, turning
to help his girlfriend emerge, reaching
through the window to pay the driver.

She's about to enter the café
when he turns her around, holds his phone
near her face, captures the nervous smile
framed by doorway and menu board.

He is black-skinned, she pallid and blonde
and hard to tell if it's the end
of a one-night stand or the second week.
Either way, she knows to follow instructions

as he turns her again, presses her
to an inside table, only a pane of glass
separating their intimacy from my solitude
outside. He orders for them both.

Me, I learned the hard way, first ask.