The guy who owns the coffee shop
told me today
he knows the milk is frothed
to the perfect foam
not by timing
or temperature

he listens to the pitch of the wand

bubbling
sucking
silence
roar.

It makes me wonder
why we don’t collide our senses
more often:

lick his shoulder
to see if he is anxious,

smell the heaving
music,

keep an eye out
at all times
for love.