Beyond the window – glass, plate –the clack and stubble of Monday
where pavements flow an oil-slickof workers who gallopade, glissade
side-step, smile apologies. Behind him,his faithful Gaggia infuses a keep-heat mug
in a rage of steam, its screech a rivalto the planes that once coiled his valley,
strafing the grey-green haze of olives,eclipsing the cries of cicadas in the long grass
– him already knowing only the male shrieked –as he huggled within the reek of his father’s thin body.
Josif knows now from that particular clunk-k-kthat his old friend is close to serving his last.
He prays they will struggle through this lunch.Placing a biscuit beside the cappuccino
he shumbles towards the glass-topped tabletoo soon finger-smeared, grieves the passing
of easy-wipe formica, the taking of small cupsover conversations in sunlit squares, accepts
the flicker of eye as Hvala*, contemplatesthe silent elegance of a close-furled umbrella.
*Hvala Thank you