The Smell of Coffee is Like Petrichor and Chocolate
Oat milk in the Grecka poured into coffee,
swirled into tree rings, pressed by the scent
of maple macchiato mist arose in the air,
swans painted in latte art, held in a white mug.
My hands burrowed into the warm mug,
leading it to the maple wooden table,
The windows of the café poured light in,
sunbeams laid on the page of my book,
Dearly by Margaret Atwood,
a sanctuary for magpies and pigeons.
A man in a cowboy hat and cowboy boots
passes by for a fleeting moment,
perhaps he was going to the bar
or catching a drink of Whiskey
with his cowboy friends on 17 Avenue.
I kick my feet, waiting for my friend, waiting,
waiting for our weekly nights at Waves Coffee,
till the cafe closes at twilight, as lights dim.
The taste of maple, oat, and coffee beans
spilled swirls of the Earth onto my tongue,
birthing the plants peaking through the soil,
wisteria poured into my head,
my tastebuds lingering in the quintessence
of late-night talks about the meaning of life
and wistful or nostalgic stories.
The plastic seat pressed against my crossed-legged
thighs, warm on a hot summer day. My charcoal
strands, slightly covering the page, drooped
behind my shoulder as I pulled my hair back,
waiting again, to wait, and wait…
