Best Drink of the Day

The streets shift out of the violet dark.
The churchyard ginkgo is flailing again,
branches tangled in yellow disorder.
Here in the cafe, Silvano fences a knife
to sharpness. There’s the scrape
of spread on flags of toast. I order tea.
The mug comes steaming, pulled
from the gasping dishwasher
in mid-monsoon, a thick white saucer
like a worn-out moon, brittle
from too much shining. My hands column
the mug, drawing its heat. By now
so much of life is already decided
but there’s always a shiver
in this waiting moment, before the day
snaps off from the night, locks,
engages its rack and pinion, and starts
to grind and climb. They are stringing
the shelves with pannettone.
The red boxes swing like bells
in the draught from the opening door.