Learning to linger

By Liliana Greyf

That moment when you have to go but want to stay—so you decide you really don’t have to go at all.

When the waiter asks, eyebrows raised, if you’d like the check
say no. 
It’s true, you’ve eaten so many pastries 
and the bit below your bellybutton has begun to droop 
but it’s in a girl-like sort of way, you think,
so today you deserve a treat. 
You deserve to buy yourself a bunch of yellow roses, 
like the ones Tanya bought for your birthday 
because she couldn’t remember the English word for sunflowers. 
But because the flower shop is far, and because it is warm here, 
say no and order a coffee with cinnamon and milk. 
Or cinnamon milk with no coffee. 
Back home they don’t pour foam into 
swans or hearts, and the mugs certainly aren’t as clean.
Plus the barista’s face is getting familiar enough that
it’s become appropriate for you to think 
about what your theoretical kids would look like. Or maybe 
a dachshund will lumber in
with a beautiful person on its leash
and who could miss that? 
Perhaps you should move into this café,
because there is enough room on this bench for you to stretch your legs.
You can always undo the top button of your jeans 
and breathe. 

Process

This piece was written, unsurprisingly, in a coffee shop. I lingered longer than I would normally have to write this poem, which is about the lingering itself.