Chamomile and Cheesecake
By Jeffrey Klausman
 
We came in out of the rain,
the horizontal rain which blew
the blue horizon gray, and stepped
into the coffee shop and shook
the water from our rain jackets,
hung them near the heater
by the door. The tables all were full.
The ring of forks and spoons,
the round aroma of coffee and tea
filled the air, and on the walls
were seascapes green and white,
by a local watercolor artist
who worked en plein air.
Not on a day like today, I assure you,
I thought, as I followed you to the counter.
You said, "Chamomile and cheesecake,"
and asked for an extra spoon
and black coffee for me.
At the back of the restaurant,
at the window of the door,
the storm's wind rattled the glass
and the rain beat over the panes.
We ate our cheesecake,
drank our tea and coffee,
and read the newspaper as if
the storm had gone away,
could not touch us. We shut our ears to it,
our eyes, our doors and windows,
secure, we thought, in the shelter
of each other's thoughtless watch.