You arrived first, as you always do
and I arrived late, as usual.
Your coffee has been poured already,
so I must order.
We say hello, as we always do
and you turn your cheek
for friendship's kiss
and I sit and listen to your news.
At last, my beverage arrives,
with its matching foam and sprinkles,
the biscuit in the saucer
could be the twin of yours.
I used not to drink cappuccino,
not until you taught me to.
Like Hancock, I had no need
of froth in my life.
It's been a year, so we catch up,
with time's interlude ignored.
Your son, now twenty-two,
was eight when I met you.
I sip and listen to vicarious adventures,
occasionally contributing a memory
of somewhere we've both been,
and then our cups are empty.
Lots more to be said
and it's too soon yet to part.
I ask if you'd like another,
you say yes, but decline my offer of a bun.
I treat you to a Madeleine anyway,
and we talk and watch from the balcony
as the coffee shop empties
and chairs are put up on tables.