Minglings
She blushed, grinned and covered her mouth
said she hadn’t brushed her teeth after a late breakfast, not brunch, because
she did not want peppermint interfering with the umamic lingerings of her
black pudding and egg on toasted white with a dab of Irish lightly salted butter and
that lovely cup of black tea in her special mug- the one with Johnny Depp
as Cap’n Jack Sparrow on it;
bereft of The Times, it had made her day on a blustery Tuesday morning
when even leaves flew past as fast as sparrows while
she sat still looking out the window that whistled decrescendos in dactylic spondee;
I laughed, leaned over and kissed her anyway. I hadn’t eaten.
My coffee breath swirled into hers, swished and savored:
our afternoon delight accomplished in full view of passersby.
I remembered her name.
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