observations

Blueberry muffin crumbs

and a half empty americano,

lukewarm,

and my red pen is sticky,

a tiny black hair clinging to the

rubber part underneath my thumb.

The air smells faintly of a

dirty diaper and baby powder,

not because there are any babies in this cafe,

no—

that’s just the way my nose percieves

some stranger’s perfume two tables over,

a relic of an olfactory system long-damaged by Covid-19.

Not her fault, although it is

rather strong.

Some observations need not hold any meaning.

Is this a poem?

Must a poem hold meaning to be worthy of the word?

After all,

there will never be another moment in time or space

in which this woman,

making small talk with her friend,

wearing perfume far too strong

and a zebra-print coat,

spills her latte on this particular oriental

rug, leaving a stain that will still be there tomorrow—

or this particular tiny black hair

sticks to my pen in this particular shape—

or the crumbs of my blueberry muffin

are arranged just so,

next to a lukewarm americano stained with

lipstick a friend bought me for Christmas.

And maybe it means something

that if I were to eat one of these crumbs,

or take one more sip,

everywhere in the world,

something would be different.