Borrowed Sorrow

The Formica cool beneath my elbow bone,

the clatter soft, not quite my own.

Coffee steamed, a rising blur,

a clock's face swam behind the stir.

Then from the booth, a woman near,

her voice a low, unwelcome clear,

said, "It's a borrowed sorrow, this."

Her words a strange, unwanted kiss.

My breath hitched, held, then let it go.

That phrase kept playing, soft and low.

The steam went thin, the clock stayed vague.

A feeling stuck, a silent plague.