The morning clings to you
like a damp sheet, the fog
lifting slowly, a magnifier
pulled away from the square,
the live oaks edging into focus.

You sit at the table, wiping
the crumbs from you really
don’t want to know when,
a steaming cortado waiting
patiently for the first bites
of the large scones on
the mismatched plates.

In the background a cry,
“vanilla soy latte” and both
of you and the coffees cringe,
but this is quickly forgotten
as you gaze on the glass
fronted cabinet of odd china,
the furniture where no two
chairs dare match, and the
rows of loose teas and coffee beans
the comic art on the walls,
and again, three years later
Gallery Espresso becomes home.