Monday, 3:41 p.m.
It smells like cigarettes, coffee and gasoline
at the counter where the door invites the cold.
Free newspapers are piled in a corner.
People sit like movie extras
behind newspapers, laptops and cups.
The table and chair are black.
The plate is square and white.
Coffee comes in a glass,
taller and thinner than a woman's hand.
It stands waiting,
too hot to touch.