Opening hour is for strawberry jam and sticky fingers.
I watch you unscrew the jar and release June into January.
Soft fruit freckles and blushes in the non-rain.
Here is a sweet, stewing pectin,
Borrowed from summer and ripening for now.
Now with flaking, buttery crumbs
That gild my lap like gold-leaf.
Now with ankles wrapped around bar stools
Where just before, nighthawks perched and slunk into the blue.
Here is a private opening,
With steamed milk and steamed windows
And the cobbles cloaked in a sumptuous kind of grey.
Two knives criss-cross the plate and I lick one when your back is turned.
It is winter still. The year is young and growing.
Customers arrive, buses hiss, coffee froths. And so, on.
I slip into the day and back onto the street,
Knowing the taste of strawberry jam will linger long
For opening up with you.