Culacinno: noun; an Italian word describing the mark left on a surface by a cold glass.
In front of me, a brown-tinted awakening potion
Stirring; very slightly, occasionally.
Thick curls of steam, a warm devotion
And a single cube of sugar melting; slowly.
Time ticks by. People hastily rush off.
And yet somehow I’m frozen. So mesmerising,
The whirls of kaleidoscopic patterns are
Forming on the surface; so hypnotising.
A slight bump causes my trance to snap
Somebody accidentally spilled their cup
Midday scuffle, but simply breaks even
As the hand points its way on the number eleven
I return to my coffee, in the cush table I’m alone
By the window, society functioning, passersby on their phone
Nullified existences. Nearly industrial.
Lives of survival, technology and metal.
Time’s up. I sip the remaining scalding liquid down
Grab my hat and my case and head off to town
All that remains, a wispy ghost of my visit
A perfectly round mark on the wooden table, a cry of a soul in transit.