Hot Coffee

Hot coffee,
and a cigarette almost finished.
I can look across the table,
and see you sip from your mug
that your mother gave you.
I can smile in the smallest way,
and you catch my eye.
You smile back,
and you flick your ashes
in the ashtray we bought in Virginia.
When we rode over state lines,
through the dark,
and pouring rain.

You're gone.
Death moved in,
swift and deft,
taking you straight from our bed.
I remember how fast
my world fell away.
Ten minutes:
A child without a mother,
a husband without a wife.
A life struck without a meaning anymore.

But still, today, I can look across the table.
I can see you sitting there
with hot coffee
and a cigarette almost finished.
Ten years later,
I can still catch your eye,
I can still see the flick of the ashes,
and I can still see that smile.