Reflected in a Drop

She sits, sips her coffee
(two sugars, with cream)
and watches the raindrops
wind down the windowpane.
She thinks of roots, and trees,
growing things and crawlers in the earth.
A man at the counter is missing a hand,
but hides the stump in his pocket.
The clock ticks
from almost overhead. She sighs,
but does not check the time.

The droplets trace labyrinths,
delicate pathways in the glass, joinings
and slipped partings
she could count, if she chose.
A drop trembles, almost dances
in the wind she can almost hear.
Looking near, her breath fogs the glass.
She sees cars, houses, trees and lights,
bottles beside the curb,
a hobo watering the bushes,
a couple walking hand-in-hand
under a smiley-faced umbrella.
The whole street, she finds,
reflected in a drop.

"Baghdad," the man says,
as if it explained everything.

The clock goes on ticking.
She can't hold back any longer.
Checks her phone.
(Fifteen minutes late.)
She sighs
and Likes a picture of a cat
that her friend posted eight minutes ago.

The coffee is still steaming.
She takes off the lid
and reaches for another sugar packet.
When the door opens, she turns too fast
and upsets the cup.
It falls to the floor,
and hot liquid spreads in all directions.