Cappuccino’s brassy spigot hisses, invades
murmurs from the next table
where the young woman sits with two older men,
fiddles with her coffee spoon.
She shares the profile, the eyes, of the grizzled one,
his flannel sleeves rolled up. He cricks his knuckles,
sometimes pats her hand.
That guy, he says. That guy. I could…
The other man, suit and tie, fishes in his briefcase.
Each morning when I get off the bus, she says,
he’s on the corner in his car.
He’s hacked me.
He knows who I phone, who phones me.
He posts on my Facebook.
He knows my work schedule, my bank balance,
That guy, says her dad.
Cancel everything, says the lawyer.
No phone, no internet, no memberships.
You have to go dark.
She stirs and stirs her coffee, gazes out,
at the boulevard’s slow beauty, chestnut leaves’
green-gold transformation, syrup of fall sunshine,
children in their quick lives gathering chestnuts,
upturned faces sun-bright, oblivious.