Over Coffee

There’s my friend, sitting on the white bistro chair
         under the red Coca-Cola umbrella.

I take my Irish crème outside and sit down.  In the
         warm sun we talk and laugh—two old friends,
         chatting over coffee.

It’s always breezy on this street.

Passersby hardly give us a glance—the tall, balding man
         and the short, chubby woman.

No one is exempt from our tongues: family, friends, the
         man driving the wrong way on the one-way street.

Too soon, we part—he on an errand of mercy,
         I to my volunteer job.

The warmth that remains isn’t from the sun.