Morning light, bronze spoon, slow coffee

Light slanted through the studio's grimy window though the lamps stayed off. Slow-pressed coffee in hand, the bronze spoon warm against my palm like a metronome, and a scratched Nina Simone record keeping time with my shoulder blades.

On the subway a man with paint-smudged knuckles read a spiral-bound sketchbook; the way his collar folded felt like choreography worth learning. Walked home with the spoon tucked close, already tracing the next line of a skyline that might find its way across someone's palm.