On a Sunday, unusually warm,
I walk to the neighbourhood cafe
for breakfast, it’s not crowded
but all the newspapers displayed
proudly near the counter on other
focused days are sold out.
Leaving me with a tall cup of coffee
and a curious lightness, a feeling
that empties and makes me full
at the same time...something that has
to do with the present and the uncertain
past and the days yet to be tasted.
Men and women scattered in different
corners work on crossword, raising their
heads occasionally to ask each other a
doubt, words uniting them in their
confusion, a dog on a leash strolls in,
she sniffs at the legs of my table
her owner shakes his head with a wry smile.
The scornful rain arrives,
in the night to make sure
the aberration does not last,
and to whisper in my unwilling ears
that a warm day in winter is nothing
more than hope cloaked in desire.