In a Cafe, In Some Sort of Limbo

If I could have my way,
It’d probably be October.
We’d be on wicker chairs,
the kind that sink a little
when you shift your weight.

I guess I’d like it to be
somewhere upstate,
because it’s a lot colder there,
and the light is pure gold.

It would speckle the table,
little flakes of gold
swimming in my black coffee—
You’d ask when I even began to drink the stuff.

And we’d sit there together,
And you’d take cream with yours,
And you would sip as I sipped,
And our lips would stain
the cups’ rims in tandem.