Probing the tables for the right space
I steal a chair and screech it to the far left window.

Searching the cafe for the proper seat
a young woman wraps her dress around her knees

& sits. Laces up her legs. Tugs her hem.
Pulls her hair around to cascade down her right shoulder—
I wonder if this is a ritual. (It seems a ritual.)

Perhaps she’s summoning a god
of manners and beauty. She stirs her latte counterclockwise
to only dip her pinkie in the cup.

Did she get cream? Does she like foam?
My pen is so gnawed at, its bottom like twisted metal.

She types out secrets. They are secrets to me.
I spill my coffee over my pages. She doesn’t even look up.