Opposite him at this table again
and through the windows the city glittering, surreal as a scale model,
the city in miniature—only it moves in a real way, because it is real.
One of the windows is open, some construction down on the street
drones like a distant vacuum. It’s warm for January.
Still, his apartment has that dreamlike quality
of feeling like home though I know it’s not. Not mine anymore—
but how many people get to visit the past without hurting anything?
To come back and drink the same coffee
from the same never-quite-clean cup?