Breakfasts and Sara, You Were Beautiful

Every day I think we went to the cafe
the cafe of vapors and rhyme
and the circular truths going 'round.
Truths of every day like the sound from the
jukebox down there, our talk scratching
like an old record . . .

I spilled my confessions like coffee and
we mopped them up, the soppy glop like
a plate load of me
I'm sorry I'm sorry
An old record going 'round . . .

The smells of cinnamon and of grounds . . .
and I begin to think of you as a priest
in your absolution and your grace.
Oh, and the long hours 'round noon,
your presence like sugar
on a long-handled spoon.