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Cup

      
    Banjos in the cafe. Garlic in the day's first bite. Book on my table with only 
one chapter left to savor, but I draw out every last swallow. 

     To photograph the room is to both shrink and freeze the chaotic overlaps of Sunday time. Two men seated beside me imagine aloud together, hardly touching their food. Potatoes, avocados, single blueberry scone. 

    I roll back the foil to taste. Fork and knife are of no use. All fingers on the keyboard. Throat singing. Spoken word.
A heart of foam on the surface of my cup.

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