Coffee House

Holding the small white cup of coffee
in its small white saucer
and turning
to decide where I would sit
in this airy place
with lacy wrought-iron tables and chairs
and French windows opening onto a field of sunshine and wild flowers

I am aware of someone else (a familiar figure)
another man within me
aware of having turned this way before
with the exact same cup and saucer
looking about a room with hardwood floors
and outside, an unkempt garden
the smell of coffee and the hissing of espresso machines
two of us

there had always been two of us
not always on speaking terms
and rarely, in a musical sense, together
but this morning, we were together
one within the other
had we been color plates
you would say the registration was perfect
and that is how we would like it