Blue Stripes

You and I arrived, visitors

caught in a late-summer storm, soaked

to the bone on siren-filled streets, we

eyed the sign—Blue Stripes Open 

we dripped through the door, snatched

the one table waiting, shivered

on stools misshapen, studied

the menu written on walls

exposed shelves with glass jars

floor to ceiling—pomegranate tea, cacao

kombucha on tap and whipped cream

hungry eyes ordered coffees with oatmilk

gulped from chipped mugs, your eyes wide

mine, hiding tears, my fear

of saying goodbye, and I wondered

if this will be your place, where

you’ll read art books, have

a first date with someone whose name

I won’t ever know, the place

where you will gather before class

or after class with friends you’ll make

and drink way too much coffee and

sing along to the French hip hop

and practice your French with the woman

in dreadlocks, who says she’s from Paris,

here’s your oatmeal, says the man

with an accent, Israeli? I ask, he says yes

I ask if he sells challah, he says

best challah on the Lower East Side.