she knows. I'm sure she knows.
every day of the week,
I'm there for her, so to speak.
my order consistent, my appearance reliably persistent.
her compatriots behind the counter
even made up a name for me and my order!
"senor dos cubanos, por favor,"
i wait till she is free, always, before ordering.
they all sly smile at the foolish old man,
who requires only a certain young lady from Cuba,
to make his daily shots, just so, so fussy he.
please! no sugar needed,
her demure mouth,
sweet plenty.
they know. i'm sure they all know.
the olive complexion,
the hair pulled back so tight,
beneath a ridiculous uniform hat,
the slender frame radiating pride
all of which she wears so well,
with a modest hint of self made pride.
working her way up in America.
two coffees, extra milk, in a plastic bag
to travel with me, back to my imprisoning day desk.
she hands me the bag oh so carefully.
our fingers touch. our fingers much touch,
with the oft, quick but sensitive precision
of a baton passing
in an Olympic relay race.
she smiles. always.
it's ridiculous. i'm ridiculous. who cares.
that one contactual second is a gift,
the thrill is not gone.*
and that is why he writes
only love poetry
