we sit facing each other; two
kidney beans facing each other, the gap
between them like the gap in our conversation
unnatural and unpleasant.
the wooden table between us cannot
rouse our conversation, though its circles
have so much history to share. we choose
to stay silent like leaves in still air.
our waiter brings two mugs, filled to the brim
with steaming hot coffee. we look at the brown
liquid - her’s pale, mine dark, and admire the
artful designs the brewer constructed on the foam
perhaps, in an attempt, to construct our dialogue.
it doesn’t work. we raise the potent brew to our
lips - her’s smooth pink, mine chapped grey, and
drink. coffee beans from guyana or madagascar or
nigeria or some other tropic died, oh yes they died
to give you this heavenly brew, the smell
oh that smell of freshly cut wood and sweet sugar and
fresh paper with bleach white finish, eager to serve
as the container for your ruminations on how
good this coffee is.
the foam bubbles above the drink, bubbling up my
mood, each pop a conversation, each sip
motivation, the chocolate notes a concert in my mind
with vanilla the conductor, urging me to play my solo
“The coffee’s rather good, don’t you think?”