Elizabeth Wilkinson, Marche

Marché

Elizabeth Wilkinson

I shimmy into a corner seat Cold tugging at my coat. My frozen fingers meet a steaming mug, And I settle into the hum of chatter.

Someone’s laughter cuts through the buzz, Reaching every corner with a vibrant boom. A voice robust, like the smell of coffee, Wafts around the room.

Nearby a couple debate About silly things, nothing coarse. Their words bounce, jump, and flutter Over dewy grapes with no remorse.

I see a smile flash amongst the crowd; One so warm it stings my cheeks. The grin is quite contagious and loud. The two sitting across from them look pleased.

The squeak of my leather seat calls me back After these conversations have thawed my soul. I begin to notice meek etches on the table And feel myself reclining into my own company.