I left the house with no particular plan
past the clipped hedges and identical mailboxes,
the smell of someone’s toast drifting from a half-open window,
a dog behind a fence giving me a bark
as per the ancient covenant between canine and
strangers in motion
The sky is trying to decide
between gray and something lighter.
I walk in that small space of freedom
between what I’ve done
and what I still have to do—
a man in transit,
with no particular urgency,
shuffling the loose change in my pocket.
Two streets over,
the coffeeshop appears—
a little beacon of glass and warmth.
Inside:
the low hum of conversation,
the hiss of steam from the machine,
the clink of mugs,
and there—my friends at a corner table,
already mid-story,
their faces lifting as I arrive—
as if this ordinary morning
had just been waiting
for me to step into it.
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