Honey

A poem written a 10:30 p.m. (a little late for me) I like how it turned out.

Honey

“Would you like tea?”
She asks me.

“Don’t forget the honey,”

Her heels click,
on the cheap
red, white, and
black linoleum.

I sit back against
the red booth.

Alone again.

Empty walls,
and it’s my fish
Purple, green, blue he adds color
to my colorless room.

At least he has
his plastic scuba diver
for company.
He never talks back,
stares at me all day
through the glass confines
of the fish bowl.

“Here’s your tea, extra, honey,”

The white ceramic mug,
clunks on to the cheap
Formica table.