awkward

the youth
is a look
between child
and man

his mother
is a bun drawn tight
facing the café window

they talk
his voice squeezed
between high
and low
so he keeps it on a rein
nothing
above a murmur

she has a latte
an i-phone
dark glasses
and the paper

he stands beside her
not sure
if he should sit
or leave

another
green embroidered shoulder bag
stops by to chat

hello

as the hands start
to wave animation
he decides
to go


© Frank Prem, 2017

March 2017 Poem #27: danced (on the needle) into silence

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7 thoughts on “awkward

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