Over Coffee

In a perfect world, coffee would already come with cream and sugar.

Not yours though — you like it black,

with little sweetener pellets; two or three;

It’s what they do in Germany.

In a perfect world, we’d wake up at the same time,

and sleep better together.

In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to leave

so early, or at all. I wouldn’t have to worry

if our semesters align in Spring, or Fall.

In a perfect world, you wouldn’t steal — sorry — borrow the blanket

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in the middle of the night.

In a perfect world, in the middle of the night, when you stole the blanket—

or otherwise—

I wouldn’t wake up

frightened, cold, alone.

In a perfect world, I wouldn’t yell at other drivers, and you wouldn’t have to practice stoicism,

or posturing, or carry mace

while walking down the street.

In a perfect world, both of our moms would still be alive.

In a perfect world

your parents would value your personhood, listen to you,

and get their own damn therapist.

In a perfect world I wouldn’t have been

neglected, abused, cast out.

In a perfect world, over coffee,

mine with cream and sugar, yours

with three little pellets and a stir,

we wouldn’t be holding each other,

tears racing like

scared children, falling

in an infinite moment,

over coffee.