A ghost rises from a
Cup of coffee
Across the table
Where you
Sit.
Shadows hug the golden warmth
Of the sunlight licking
your skin;
Dust motes filtering through the
Air.
A basket before us.
“Baguette”, you say
Breaking the portion into two
Steam rising from the crevice.
The halves are gone
In a crackling of buttered fluff.
My turn:
Another piece of bread;
I turn it over in my hands.
“Ciabatta”
You nod. “Hmm.”
This time we dip our knives
Into a ruby red jam.
It catches the light
Glinting back at our knives
In a knowing wink.
Your turn:
The smell tells you
“Cumin”.
I make a slight face, but my half
Is gone as quickly as the previous
Two.
If I opened a book
The words might escape into the air
Following the aroma of coffee beans
Into the still-sleeping minds
Of those who come here
Hoping the sun might
Drown the words of the night before
And warm their faces
With the
Promise of a good coffee;
Nothing more
Nothing less.
“Sun-dried tomato?”
I watch you over the edge of my coffee cup
As you nibble absently on the crust
Slumped against the window.
Your mind is gone from here.
Perhaps I ought to sketch the waitress.
The bill arrives.
The curtains wave us goodbye.
