My life’s work
poems
- is to sit in coffee shops
- with strangers who feel
- like home, every one of us
- a vessel for croissants
- and coffee we don’t taste.
- We sunbathe and drink
- behind windows
- and wonder why
- we’re still so pale.
- Meanwhile the sun
- continues to give
- life to the land
- and anyone who sees
- that the exit
- is the entrance,
- that coffee
- was meant to be enjoyed
- in colder hands.