Night alone, drinking coffee from a cup,
knees tucked, hands still, one ungloved,
she’s thinking past new sips and empty,
probably cold explains coat still on.

Well, Edward, what have we got here?

The middle-aged man in me,
father of daughters and husband,
grown old beyond women-alone-
drinking-coffee-want-me-fantasies,
wonders whose daughter she is.

It’s still odd you know, a good woman—
alone, at night, in public, drinking coffee.
I imagine most of us think pretty is lucky
and she won’t be alone for long,
but also know a solitary man drinking coffee
fits no one’s fantasies but his own,
and his alone lasts longer than bone.