Having early morning coffee at Cafe Trieste
The sun shines down on the San Francisco hills
And bounces back up onto my shoulders,
Framed by the scratched storefront window.
The gold leaf letters are faded, but perfect in their imperfection,
As "old" here means something completely new to me.
I look out and look in, calm and happy,
With my right palm warmed by au lait topped with cinnamon
And my left hand tracing the pattern on the tabletop,
Carved by poets and pavers and bankers and mothers,
Each of whom found this place by no accident of fate.
Paul slops the hot coffee on the hot counter
And everyone in line knows what to say to one another
In this, their haven that we have stumbled into,
Miles from home.
But this moment right here
Is what I will always think of
As my favorite San Francisco morning.