Let’s not answer that question.
We are in the immediate café,
quieter than any library.
An unsaid agreement
of silence among the lonely.
The monsoon looking on,
banging on the glass windows
like an abandoned dog. Futile
to compete with its noise. So we pay
attention only to the coffee on our table
the smell of alimuom in a distant continent.
Oh, only we know of the land’s secret
breathing after the rain; even
their undiscovered mountains throb.
I must be one of many writers visiting
this place now, this origin of coffee; for it is warm
here, and public. Today is Tuesday
and the world outside is undressing
slowly with every drop of rain;
and we the willing
virgins, the way we keep
to our notebooks—to our faith
in weather and change.
Look, God is taking time
and doing nothing with it,
stirring in his coffee cup
another East Pacific wind,
another question of His: asking
us to sit down; strike
the ground of our hearts again;
dig ourselves further
into truer selves.