Never on Tuesdays

She doesn’t miss him,
him and his aeronautical ideas
about romance
calling nights out their ailerons
(subtle adjustments
for flight control).

She doesn’t miss him
always ordering tea;
loving sharing the pot;
the way his glasses steamed up when he drank;
the way his left ear moved
just a little when he smiled.

She pokes her straight nose out
when the waiter comes -
orders one of those milky coffees:
a long latte,  or a flat Puccino or 
goodness knows what else.
Was it a white keto?

Her purple scarf is satin
glossy against the dull white
of her thick,  make-up
She doesn’t miss him
so she won’t wear black,
no sirree.  "Paint me white,"
she said to the mirror
not missing him at all.

In fact she’s wearing one of his 
old hats, a bit big and with the narrow
brim at 45 degrees .  She feels like
Inspector Gadget.  And his trench coat
although it’s not wet today.
When she put it on she found
a shopping list in the pocket
“eggs, avocados, milk for Lenny”
He always called her Lenny

even although her name is Francine
She can’t remember why.
Was it something to do
with Berlin and the cheese they ate
in a park?  She doesn’t miss him.
They weren’t even twenty then
smiles like slices of peach
cut from the stone.  Such youth.

She peers into her phone case
it’s the one he gave her
printed with delphiniums
their towering purple scales.
She shuts it, furiously,
and sips her coffee
with its impossible froth
sitting on her lips like rabies.
She's hoping for a burn.  

He would have laughed…
if he’d bothered to stick around...
at the sticky foam.
She doesn’t miss him, not at this cafe 
where they didn’t ever come 
on Tuesdays.