She asks a question of him, but of the group.
He cannot answer: mouth full of bread or soup.
Her query is met with silence,
Until another breaks it without violence.
Her left foot is propelled
By unmet expectation.
Her right spurred on
By hopes dashed, hopes felled;
She leaves the room gracefully,
Then passes by, looking in mournfully.
Another pass with greater sadness,
And finally, donned a coat for pass number three.
He wonders why the passes,
Why the sadness on her face;
Beautiful among all the pretty lasses,
What’s gone wrong in this case?
He finishes his meal, pondering.
His mind, wandering,
Comes to a clearing
Where he finds some meaning.
With haste he departs,
In search of this sweet dame.
He realizes in his heart
The coat means he is too late.
©2015 H.K. Longmore
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 