The Day

Seated with a friend
At a coffee shop,
You notice how loud
Other tables are,
Maybe, or how bright

The sun outside, or
How quickly your chai
Got to the bottom
Of its plastic cup,
But do you notice

How many details
Are shifting around
In little motions,
The dust motes, paper
Fragments slid to floor,

The Brownian twitch
And jog of the air?
Awareness rides high
Atop rolling waves
Of the minuscule,

Too many movements,
Too minor, in too
Many directions.
You’ve got no traction.
You float on the day.