I walk through cold streets
my face to waning sun
and step into a café
to order something warm
and be among people,
to wonder about them—
what a marvel
people of like strangeness
find each other.
And how odd it is
that we show love
with fingertips, bear
the darkest parts we hide
from everyone else.
And how even the most
beautiful people sweat
under their arms,
try to become more beautiful.
And how hard it is
to look a person in the eye,
a simple, unguarded look—
all I can do is watch
the lean, boyish barista
wipe tables from
the corner of my eye.
I put palm to chest
but can’t feel my heart—
it only need pump
a languid pace
to my fingers and toes,
nothing more, the pulse
of a monk at evening prayers.