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COFFEE-HOUSE
LOVE POEM,
Early Sunday Evening
Sorrow
Another
early Sunday evening has arrived.
You,
you are gone, abroad;
I
sit here by myself and drink coffee.
Instead
of us sharing our dinner together tonight,
I
write verse about how much I miss you.
The
notion, that adage about absence making
The
heart grow fonder is nonsense,
To
me, it amounts to no more than a hill of beans!*
I
am no fonder, no fonder of you than I was
Ten
minutes ago at the start of this poem.
I
am no fonder of you today than yesterday,
Than
last week, than weeks ago,
When
you departed on business,
Left
me in this big, old town, alone,
During
that time, since then, my love,
My
love for you has not grown even an iota.
Tonight
I am simply sad.
I
am lonely.
I
feel terrible without you.
*A
colloquial American expression as in “it ain’t worth a hill of
beans”, Humphrey Bogart says it to Ingrid Bergman at the end of the
film Casablanca, which
brings the phrase into world-wide notice.
“Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to
see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill
of beans in this crazy world”.
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