I take the table by the window
The one beside the hanging plants
The same ceramic cup
The same folded newspaper stand
Outside, a bicycle leans against the corner
A bus sighs at the light
The clock above the pastry case
Moves slowly through the white
The coffee always cools before I finish
A thin brown ring remains
The waitress knows my order now
But never asks my name

The door opens
The door closes
Small shadows cross the floor
I look up without meaning to
The way I have before

At eleven forty-seven
The room becomes a little still
Not quieter
Just different
Like a song between two hills
Maybe I'm waiting for someone
Maybe I'm waiting for the way
A familiar feeling enters
And decides to stay
The coffee always cools before it knows
Why I came

The menu changed last autumn
The walls were painted cream
The old machine behind the counter
No longer makes that steam
A young couple shares a muffin
Near the seat you used to take
The sunlight lands exactly where
It always used to break
I stir the cup though nothing's in it
Watch the spoon reflect the room
Some habits keep their shape
Long after they lose their use

Years ago
At eleven forty-seven
You walked in late and out of breath
Coffee on your sleeve
A smile you couldn't hide
You sat across from me
For forty minutes
Then changed the color of the week
I never came back for the person
I came back for the way the world would briefly shift

At eleven forty-seven
The room becomes a little still
Not quieter
Just different
And somehow always will
Maybe I'm waiting for someone
Maybe I'm waiting for the way
A familiar feeling enters
And brightens up the day
The coffee always cools before it knows
Why I came

The lunch crowd starts arriving
Chairs move softly across the floor
A cold cup beside the window
Eleven forty-seven
Reflected in the spoon