The waiter places the coffee on the table
somehow expressing just how beneath him
the entire exercise has proven
Accomplishing this with just the position of his
body and his lack of a greeting

I am impressed
I add cream and stir

I pick up the cup and peer inside
a swirl within another like a night
filled with stars
Placed above a town with a church steeple
as if to mix the sky
The cup itself now a palate
I could use it, perhaps with a biscotti
to paint my own darkness

I look around and perceive the table and the cafe
in a new way
Gaze too closely and it begins to break apart
There is nothing between the tiny dots
except....
we assume
the ones that look alike, go together
we make the patterns,

the connections don't really exist

The waiter now, despite being made up of a cloud
of independant notes,
still manages somehow
to project ennui and disdain
I continue to be impressed

Paying my bill using notes with shifting faces
I walk down a street created with the brush in my hand