The London Fog

all you wish for in life 

is to unwind in a booth 

In the corner 

Of a coffee shop whose baristas know your order by memory And your voice by ear 

And you’ll sit in the late afternoon or early morning 

And notice how the milk in your drink 

Will swirl and dance like the clouds 

Outside the large bay windows 

The rays of sun will peek through the soft linen curtains And trace figures on you hand like a lost friend 

Memorizing every part 

As you write stanzas and lines 

As if to memorize you 

So that it will know you by name 

When you finally come calling 

You’ll leave little notes 

Maybe short poems with your tip 

And you’ll watch them smile 

as you climb into the backseat of the taxi 

Who knows you have no money to pay 

But picks you up anyway 

You’ll return each day 

A little more tired than the last 

But smile on your face when you enter the room 

With shelves for walls and plants for a ceiling 

Will leave thoughts of such in the dirt 

You’ll talk to the walls like old friends 

And to the books like lovers 

You’ll read the words like you wrote them 

And you know that no-one would ever check you 

If you claimed you had 

You’ll know the path through the standalone shelves 

And booths 

And pots big enough to climb inside and sleep 

From memory 

Full confidence as you walk with your eyes glued to your newest mess That the workers will beg you to read 

You’ll balance your usual order on top of stacks of books Sitting on the antique table with only three legs 

You’ll watch as the table tips and your drink feeds the floor And the books turn to ink on a page 

And only when you’re given a new glass

Will you return to staring out the bay windows 

Searching for old friends 

Or unfamiliar faces 

(Which are harder to see day by day) 

Or rays of sun that puncture the blanket of clouds that covers the city A hazy late morning 

With the scent of London Fog 

Bittersweet as the tea