there’s diesel dirty coffee and surrounds that swill.
an industrial belch in my left ear, clashes with the white wash’s
high pitched and fuzzy hum.
it partly erodes and partly peels back the last
I joke about French cigarettes, and you
joke about leaving me
to my shabby knit hat and musing.
there’s a napkin, but I avoid the cliche and instead
press it to my lips. there’s been others before me, as it reads,
“the one with the aroma”
and now, to brighten my palette
we walk to the ice-creamery
for blood orange sorbet and passionfruit.