Drinking coffee in Parkdale

The tin ceiling reflects weak mid-winter sun
across red brick walls and dark wooden booths,
dissolves into corners that brooms pretend not to know.
Boots and sneakers scrape over scarred wood floors
(the planks tell their stories when pressed).
The coffee has its own story. But no bitterness here,
just a nutty warmth that smells more familiar than home.
It moves inside my mouth, leaving traces
of its sweet strong narrative on my tongue.

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