Coffee Hour

I stand alone

swaying to lively Dixieland jazz.

A cornet and trombone fall

into beautiful harmony while

my hands find comfort selecting

a deceptive blueberry donut hole

out of an assortment

in a cardboard tray.

I sneak a taste and its

vibrant insides shock me,

much like faith

as of late.

I eat three more,

savoring each in two bites,

delighted with surprise

every time I pull away

and find the fluffy bright blue

staring back at me.

We all need that glimpse

of colorful transformation,

to savor—

not have explained—

just to savor,

to put our faith in each other.

“This coffee is good,”

an older man says to me,

and I agree.

“It’s great. I just keep

refilling my cup

over and over.”

We laugh lightly,

standing awkwardly

side by side.

We take in the sounds

of quarreling horns,

the post-church celebration.

We seem to have found

some solace in each other's

silent company.

I leave before it’s over;

I want the sounds to

follow me back to my car.

I want to leave

before I find the celebration

has an end.