The folded napkin is exquisite over the saucer
with a corner of green counter top distorted through the glass.
The cup is half, and steam still rises above paper and envelope.
The words in ink move, elaborate
and state intention quite beyond
any corpse of thought.
The envelope has a stamp,
and on the stamp, a still life.
Two pears, one superimposed over the other.
In the cafe
conversations familiar from the centuries are told quickly.
An empty paper cup blows past.
Feet from somewhere scurry to catch it.
On the table of a night and morning life
is a summer’s collection of unopened mail,
unmailed openings, glasses that held liquor
and mugs that held coffee.
What is seen beyond this half-reflection in the window?
Movements of flesh, business suits and cigarettes.
But the seated mind returns to the reflection.