In the coffeeshop
I have known the loneliness of endless coffee spoons,
bleakness of white napkins folded in neat squares
placed on chipped saucers, all the sorrow of crushed sugar cubes,
desolation of discarded newspapers, shriveled tea bags, biscuit crumbs,
interminable emptiness of scratched chairs, austere tables,
routine of bitter black coffee, habitude of lukewarm milk
in miniature pitchers, monotony of muzak, muted lights
and dingy bathroom stalls down narrow hallways.
And I have seen the stark February sunlight seeping
through smudged glass windows, alighting on pale thin fingers
curled through curving porcelain handles, illuminating lips
sipping from steaming mugs, and the myriad murmurings
of a thousand secluded conversations.