How to know someone:
watch as she prepares her breakfast.
The dry brown snow
of cinnamon into porridge.
Toast buttered right to the edges
and cut into triangles
the way it would have been done for her
by someone she loved, once.
She spoons coffee into the pot, hesitates:
adds another half-spoonful.
Every morning, she dips her nose
to the bag of grounds
and if she then holds it towards you
she is trying to find out
if the rich musk will stir
your own memories
of long-gone cafés, old lovers,
and you must smile.
Listen to this poem: