Breakfast With Meursault, Cody Deitz

“Coffee any good?”
I ask, leaning across
the off-white table cloth, held down
by a porcelain saucer of scrambled eggs,
crisp toast, two bright white
cups of bitter coffee, a slightly crumpled
packet of cigarettes,
and a weighted ashtray.

Eyes squinting in the smoky sea,
he nods slowly
in approval as he takes a brief
pull from his cigarette and
rests it against crystal cusp
of the filling ashtray.

The waiter glides back to refill
the cups, periodically
brushing his bent knuckles
on his grey, brown,
once-white apron.

The morning sun steps up over
the mudbrick building at the end
of the street, dribbling warm light
onto the cool sidewalk lying beside us,
and upon two young girls walking towards the ocean,
heels bouncing and hips swaying,
pulling our caffeinated gaze
against sunkissed breasts.

Meursault’s eyes retreat and
his lips part, allowing
bright, curling Parisian vowels to swirl
over the steaming cups. I realize I should
probably brush up on my French,
but it doesn’t really matter.