Salt at the Soupçon Café

and unrequited love

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

Darkday afternoon,
when all is sleepiness, lights on
at three, indoor headache. The café

pours out golden light, a waft of rich blend
raises the spirits.
She comes here to meet him — wheat and rye hair
and a scholar’s brain, but his commitment
is not to her sex.

Salt crystals spilled, gritty
to her fingertips.

On the street, umbrellas turn up
like the frill of a ptarmigan’s tail;
coat hems flap, heads bow to the wind, rain
spatters the window.

After this latte,
she will have to leave, but for now -
the fingerscratch of salt, the warmth of the café
and the yearning for a taste
of his sweet coffee lips.