You schlepp your cart of junk food
up and down the aisle past
commuters past mothers with small children
past tired tourists like me
and you’re probably underpaid and bored

But you made my day
when I realized that was an honest-to-God
espresso maker on top of your red cart

I lifted my hand
Said Espresso, s’il vous plait
and handed you a two-euro coin

After a moment of hissing and steaming
you passed me the tiny paper cup
a thin packet of sugar
a stirrer (as I’m sure you do for all passengers
day after day who need a quick wake up)
politely taking no notice of my bad accent
as I said Merci
almost exhausting my French vocabulary

I sipped the espresso—so delicious—while
the train passed wild pink flamingoes standing
at the edge of the blue Mediterranean

Yet of all the marvels I saw on that train ride
I remember most vividly that
one cup of perfectly brewed espresso

And I’ll bet you have no idea I’m still thinking
about how good it tasted six months later
back home on a foggy fall morning
as I watch ordinary brown geese
land in the placid gray river

I can still hear your cart
clanking up and down the aisle
still smell the coffee brewing
still picture that paper cup
steaming in your delicate young hand