hair flung out unbidden, as though
conducting sonatas with a quick thrust
of hands. Over tea, they speak
amid half-eaten eggs,
neglected bacon. Inside this cafe window
the woman sits in profile—hidden,
oblique. But not from him.
She, too, bends forward,
barely blinking. I hear nothing,
there aren’t many clues. No signs of anger:
skin pulled taut from teeth, no narrowed eyes,
the histrionics of table pounding.
These people seem engrossed
in a mute volley of talk. Passionate
perhaps about local politics, the latest stats
on melting ice caps. Maybe it’s music:
last night’s Vivaldi or Coldplay.
I’m guessing. I only have this window
and a wish to make up stories.
The sweep of arm or hair, unsprung tension
between two bodies. The rapt tableau
could mean anything. Or nothing.
Two people eating eggs.
