At the Coffeeshop

We talked till 3; rats chattered
squeaked, dragged their hind legs
across mottled drain-grates.

Moths powdered your shoulders
as you told me about Nirvana, airports,
death in Africa.

This was night, not a bed of stars,
a benevolent moon: oppressive heat,
a chorus of creeping shadows.

And a man who kicked them
without malice, smoked a cigarette
and made me listen.