For Harry
Good ear bent toward your loquacious partner. Head thrust
forward, a habit from years of browsing sacred ground searching for
fresh chickweed unstained by dog piss, a habit from days of
searching for ocher chanterelles hidden under dead leaves.
You punctuate the conversation with a nod, a smile, while the lips of
your partner race with hot words freed by caffeine. Pads of thumb
and forefinger rub each other round and round, rubbing
the words buzzing around the sugar and coffee spilled on the
counter, rubbing words liberated from tight jaws and stiff tongues.
Rubbing words escaping the hibernation of winter for the promise
of spring.
I was silent, wrapped in white wool from Mexico. My words
waiting, floating on thick coffee steaming in my cup. I
Reached across the counter for cream. My generous sleeve dipped
into your partner’s cold coffee, turned brown. Your ear continued
the conversation, your keen pilot’s eyes saw the brown stain.
Napkin in hand you wiped my sleeve with earthy voluptuous
fingers. My heart, buried under crusty cynical mud heaved up and
slid down my arm as you pressed clean white napkins into my palm.
It was at that moment that I knew I loved you.
