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.