Selene

The weather's pouting.

She is ordering a stack of French toast,

Just a dusting of the cinnamon and sugar,

Please, my love.

That fake restaurant syrup is so gauche.

The streets reroute the rainfall

To the curbsides,

The lazy puddles

Overrunning concrete

Onto sidewalks and grassy spots

To sink so slowly into the blackened earth.

She takes a little cream at most,

Unfolding the newspaper she insists on

Rather than the tacky glow of screen.

She talks,

Her energized voice punctuated

By the softest deepest breaths.

The clouds are drifting through the café.

Through the mist I see her

Studying my eyes,

Affirming I am following

The trail of conversational crumbs

She is slyly letting loose.

She drains her coffee

But hardly touches her piles

Of pastries and brioche.

Her boots are keeping time

I'm hoping yet to smuggle off.

10/28/25