Silver Tiles

In my dreams there are square tables

covered in knicks and scrapes.

Turquoise-colored.

Sometimes they overlook

a big park, buildings swelling

in the distance.

Other times, they simply look out

over buildings.

They are always by the window.

Placed just so under the sill,

to catch the morning light

as it drips through the city.

Always high up, looking out.

Always these tables sit in a city.

And always we sit at these tables,

rubbing sleep from our eyes,

hands running through our

bedraggled hair, small

simple smiles adorning our faces.

You often wear glasses at these tables,

because it's always so early.

You sit on the left, and I on the right.

Sometimes we talk. Others we don't.

There are often steaming cups of coffee

and tea, respectively, sitting on the table's

sagging top. Sometimes a copy

of the New York Times is spread across

these tables. We read each other articles

on some of the mornings we talk.

Sometimes the articles are quite sad,

others are very funny.

The coffee maker clicks in the background

and belches steam.

I wear a nightgown and you're in a white t-shirt,

plaid pajama pants. Your hair sticks up

and mine is tangled.

Our feet rest on the cold linoleum floor

and we gaze out the window at wherever

we are.

When we don't speak

Our hands meander across the tabletop.

Our sleepy eyes crinkle when we smile.

In my dreams there are tables.

We are always there.

Happy

to greet the early dawn

as its rosy fingers roam the city.