I was watching the coffee fall

I was watching the coffee fall

into the cup when his phone rang.

He didn't move far.

Just took the call right there

beside the machine, one hand

going to the counter—

not grabbing, just landing,

the way a book lands

when the sentence gets to be too much.

He said okay into the phone.

Then again. Then twice more.

The fourth one had a whole floor in it

going out from under.

Then he hung up

and poured his coffee

and walked back through the door.

I stood there.

The machine kept going.

It didn't know about his father.

It offered coffee to whoever came next.

I've been thinking about his hand on that counter

for three days—

not gripping, not pushing off,

just resting there

with all that new weight in it,

which is the only honest thing

I have witnessed in a long time.