At the sidewalk café
a white-haired man
asks for coffee, hot,
cream, no sugar.
His daughter touches his sleeve
and points—the cranberry scones
in the glass case—
your favorite, remember?
His granddaughter splashes
in the ceramic dog bowl
brimming with cool water
on the porch step
where I sit shielding my eyes
from the sun with a menu,
the salmon pink impatiens
in the clay pots tremble
when a concrete mixer rumbles by,
spinning its vanilla and orange striped drum.
Look, I whisper to the little girl,
a swirled ice cream cone on wheels.
Late August drifts by,
settles on my sun-warmed knees.
A friend of mine died
last week, I say to no one
as I wait for you to cross the street,
waving as you come.