A man behind me complains
about the most expensive coffee
in town. I wonder why
he is here at all. His voice
echoes, brisk as waves off
the Ireland coast, but
carrying the local.
I order fish and chips
because I miss Ireland and
nothing here feels like it. I want
to tell the man about Ireland, about
how the cold spreads its fingers to
your bones but unlike the northern Midwest
wind you will find warmth again.
It is the green, I want to tell him, the
green warms you with the sun that
spreads blue then yellow and then you
see, I want to say to him, and then
just as the cold evaporates like
a fog you see the warmth rise
and fall around you in these little notes.