By Michael Hanner
In the darkened kitchen I press down on le piston;
feeling resistance as the screen seines the coffee grounds.
Out on the terrace I take a lawn chair abandoned last night
as we dallied beside the Vézère finishing the Bergerac rosé.
A pair of swans pass by. They nest up river in the reeds
where Eric rents his canoes to people like you and me.
Coffee and this languid river are my breakfast under the last
of a lopsided moon. Ducks teeter-totter beneath the willows.
On the far side of the town bridge the swans will spend the day
feeding on the water weed that trails, long now in September.
The bell of the mairie clangs out seven. I pour coffee
into my cup with its color photo of the Eiffel Tower.
It’s chilly, 55º, still, perfect. A block away the first white truck
crosses the bridge to set up for the big Tuesday market.
But all that was far away and long past. Today is cold fog.
I take my coffee looking out a different window. I watch.
Here are men with their shopping carts of broken treasures,
children at the bus stop, joggers in headphones, rarely a swan.
Copyright Hanner 2020