In a café
secluded and warm
time curls slowly
like smoke circles
and dances in the amber rays
of Tiffany lamps
lit mystically low
while sounds dim to a murmur
inviting faces at the window.
Outside beneath the frosted streetlamps
snowflakes hang in lonely sheets
and scurry from the fierce white light
while traffic roars and people rush
to get to where ever
they don’t want to go.
In a café
in the space before a painting
muffled voices chattering dishes
conversations I half hear
but the aromatics of this place:
coffee beans freshly ground
newsprint danishes perfume
and the after sense of you—
these stay with me.
