Coffee, Black.

So here we are,
me in my slimming black slacks,
you in your skinny jeans.
The falling plume of sable hair
does not quite hide your pout,
aware of my own tightly pressed lips
I sip my espresso, hot, bitter,
a milky latte cools in your hands.

I watch you watching the passers-by
made ethereal by the steam from the coffee,
from the pavement, or your own eyes,
you become a ghost, insubstantial.

The experts would counsel forgiveness,
as if one could choose, single it out.
I search my heart for the tannin of envy,
that is for something one does not have,
I would not emulate you, I'm too tired.

You would like a cigarette,
you won't ask though, child that you are.
The coffee grounds are dregs, an unreadable prediction.
As I leave I glimpse your face,
relief, triumph, defiance,
The pout is already a little tighter.