You take a chopstick—never a spoon—and draw one slow figure-eight through the layers. The syrup writes its name in the milk-clouds. It’s a Rorschach test you can drink.
They are poured not into a cup, but into a bowl wide as a harvest moon. Syrup -Many Milk-
In a diner at 2 AM, after a rain that wasn’t in the forecast, a waitress with chipped nail polish asks, “What’ll it be?” You take a chopstick—never a spoon—and draw one
Then, the syrup. Not maple—too proud, too woody. This is golden syrup , or maybe a dark molasses that remembers the cane fields. Or better yet: a fruit syrup, boysenberry or blackcurrant, the color of a bruise at sunset. It falls from a spoon in a single, viscous rope. It does not mix. It settles . They are poured not into a cup, but