Issue 144, Fall 1997
The café walls are covered with pictures of flying parrots;
I take a table, rest my arms; the table gently tips,
A dozen strangers sit and sit and talk, all they do is lovely,
and tea leaves circle in their cups like hawks above the valley.
A woman reads a magazine, flecks ashes on the table;
a man pushes his plate away while fifty angels pull.
Outside a light snow's coming down; it heaps the cars with pillows.
The waitress hums a tune off-key and stacks a plate with apples.