For two summers they sat, one on each side
of the cherry red table on their porch.
They smoked. They drank coffee
from matching mugs
and every morning they watched
the traffic on the road below their house.
The red table glowed between them.
Every morning I looked to see if they were there,
with their coffee cups and cigarettes.
They always were.
It was ritual, them on the porch
with smoke drifting ghostly into the morning air
and me in my car, passing by these people I did not know
except by their red table and their porch.
I envied them, you know, because
they were content.
It took no more than hot coffee,
and a red table to make them so
while I was busy being the traffic
they watched each morning as they sipped and smoked.
I have been watching for them this spring.
I wanted to see those two people sitting by their red table,
smoking and sipping and watching me go by,
But they are not there this year.
The red table is alone on the porch
and the chairs are tumbled about
as if a strong wind
has shaken them from their places.