Why there’s coffee stains on my shirt

I’m in an old café

with many mirrors.

Waffles and maple syrup

sharp 

on morning air.

I see

a waitress

with dark hair

between pink walls and 

infinite reflections.

Sunlight doesn’t shine in.

It glides careful

delicate

like an organ sustaining a note 

through silence and smoke.

Everything,

the slow light reaching,

gentle noise washing

over sleepy unguarded faces,

the very color 

of this moment

bends 

around her

like the moon

quietly

unknowingly

driving still waters 

into a restless sea.