We came for coffee, but you ordered grapes,

and now you’re reading Keats. I’m watching light

collect above the window. I brought my Sade

but haven’t opened it. Across the room,

a woman of a certain age has asked

for gin. They have no liquor license here.

She settles for a latté. I see her hands

begin to shake, her skin-tight satin shirt

a bruise of lavender. I open Sade,

a “sampler” says the promo on the back.

Justine. I’ll sample that. You are lost

in Chapman’s Homer. I sigh and try your grapes,

but I taste juniper – sad alternate

to sweetness in this dis-collected light.