Black Coffee

Sitting on a cracked stool,
red as the dried out blood amber
of the northside Vegas streets
which had shrivelled
like a moldy orange
outside our usual cafe
I mistook
the patter of her chewed nails
on the speckled egg shell table top
for caffeine jitters

I sipped my thick, stale
cup of black coffee
and asked about the weather
in Vegas
and whether or not she missed how
the Virginia landscape flashed
in our windows
when the lightning
struck.

She nodded slightly
laughed coldly
and smiled
like she felt
the rainstorm blowing
in.