two, and third and coffee stains

Today's poem, and a rediscovered older one:

truly beautiful people
white woman
black man
fuzzy pilled scarf
long well kept dreads
little baby nested in between her breasts
and his almond croissant crumbs
a Parisian/latin/loungy song comes on
they hum, to baby, or each other, or the rest of the coffee shop
alternating parts
as if it was their well rehearsed dance
but if you really look
they are completely unaware they are making music
even less so of their synchronosity

All my clothes are black and coffee stain color,
because I live that way.
I don’t buy white, and
“This is why we can’t have nice things”

and I have a certain pride in that.

Sometimes I think I am scared of the possibility of marriage not because of the commitment or pressure, but because I know there is no way I would get through an entire day wearing white and not spill. Especially being a redwine drinker.