Blue Minaret

 
As I turned the corner to your street there was a different season resident
Roadside green
 trees in small insignificant budding.
Rain .
The swoosh of morning traffic sounding the path to your door
 always impeccable
 there
I left you theolonius monk  eno  fripp  oummou
And an esoteric little book written by a Nobel Prize Laureate
compared to Kafka.
There are existential overtones in the
 little package I
slid through the mail slot in your door.

 I saw a peak of  gold light in the stairwell

 I remember a time when I
 was welcome here.

I drove around the corner to turn up Anza Street trying to make it over the bridge
 before the storm worsened and as I turned the corner
 there it was.

I used lie in your bed in the morning
Pull away the curtain and gaze out at it,
 you would be making me coffee
 in your little French espresso pot that spattered
coffee all over your stove and would hiss at you like a mad cat
 over the radio playing NPR and the rattle of dishes in your sink.
Wine glasses.
 You would bring me a cup with milk in a coffee mug that once belonged to your mother
 the white ones with the funny 50’s atomic motif and I would place the mug on the sill and sip it slowly.
Laying on my stomach.
Alone in your room.

You busied your self with your morning ablutions
as the morning sun
      sweetly
 Illuminated the
 blue minaret.