outside
the wind
it lifts umbrellas
in the cafe,
makes the flowers
in the box
nervous and jitter

through the window
smoke rises from
cigarettes blown

as they say—
there is fire

the rain would come,
could come and
extinguish 

the glass is
bespotted,
the fans turn
quickly above,

the breeze
not yet stronger
than the spiders
ambitious attempt
to span a distance

legendary amongst his
absent peers, the strand
now thick with dust

with crema
and pursed lips
hovering over
my espresso,
I create mushroom
clouds.

black as starless nights
tastes like ashes
and charcoal with
a hint of burnt
almonds and
suicide notes,

the room now flushes
with people pushed
in from the sky’s
sudden outburst
of saltless tears

and after all this
chatter and
useless frivolousness
I arrive at that
worn-at-the-knee
cliche, I won’t say
 
after the threat
of water and the
ride and the lazy
fan and the light
flickering through the
dull rotation of
fan blades,

I eventually
find my strength for
the climb back
home, the
climb back to
you, 

up those
hills that are
sometimes gradual,
but more
often less so

yes.

much more often
less than gradual.


© 2008 by Zachary Stafford. All rights reserved.