In the Cafe

Pastries still steam the corners
of the glass cupboard.  The waitress
hips her soft way between tightly packed
tables, flirting with spilled glasses,
overturned plates. We watch as

our laughter echoes with the clatter
of dishes, a competition
of voices, music, slow caressing
of fingers.  You only let me hold your
eyes for tiny, timid moments.  I am

by the window, between you and the world.  
How could we be more perfect than at this moment?  
Moved by yearnings we graciously deny, we
hold hands and wait for more coffee,
early sun to guide us home.