To Keep Myself From Sighing

Today is easy street.
A nonsensical lyrical bit of English
floating through my head
as I repot the cilantro plants and move the basil into the shade
 a glossy look to their leaves
as the sunlight filters through the trees
overhead
where well-fed cats hang in branches
casting wistful looks at the coy blackbirds
they will never catch

A call from another world
the coffee machine beeps
flinging my flips flops off
I wash the soil from my hands, the scent of cilantro
clings to me, a reminder of
the sticky rice paper of Vietnamese spring rolls
and the images of home
that move me.

To keep myself from sighing
over the weather beaten couches
of a San Francisco coffee house
I pour the milk,
and stir the sugar in.
The methodical movement of my body
reaching for the spoon
is comforting
and now only an overpowering need
remains
to sit
and sip Italian coffee
out of the chipped cat mug
rescued from the recesses
of a cupboard
overflowing with tupperware
and mismatched lids

A mesh chair in the garden.
And a book--good or not
it doesn't matter
my mind is
always
somewhere else