First Sip by Joan Currie

The train whistle wakes me
at six–
a long, low calling
through the dark.

You are already up,
waiting by the door.

I pull on my coat,
and we step out
into the rain.

It doesn’t feel cold,
not at this hour.

We drive up the hill in silence at first,
then begin–
our small exchange of dreams,
what lingered from sleep,
and what might be.

The barista know us.
She turns to the machine
before we speak,
tells us softly
of her cabin on the Oregon coast,
the rain there, too.

Back in the car,
the windows misting,
we mean to wait–

but we don’t.

The cups are warm in our hands.
We sip together.

For a moment,
nothing presses in.

Only this–
the bitter, the sweet,
and you beside me.

And already
it is passing.