Arabica

Early morning, coffee covered with amber foam, 

A table at a cafe, the cacophony of people around, 

I hear the sigh of the appliances, the scream of steam, 

I smell the brown aroma, the whiff of tea in china cups, 

I taste lemon tarts and butter croissants, 

In the midst of this morning noise, the southern Spanish accents echoes. 

I pay attention because

This voice comes with a smile, 

Which comes with a look, 

Which comes with a move.

Every day, around eleven am, 

I hear this accent, 

I see this smile, 

I meet this look, 

I respond to this move,

This moment never comes promises. 

I know nothing of him other than

His country

The tone of his voice.

He doesn't know me except that

I like strong black coffee

I'm not from this land.

And every morning,  

He brews the nectar with zing, 

He starts off my day

Like the song of a clock

He lightens up my steps

He warms up my smile

No strings attached, 

No promises, 

No identity even.

But he hung up my drawing

In the corner of the coark board

He grined subtly and

Read my name.