Issue 122, Spring 1992
is feeding his canaries on the terrace
when the Gypsies start to sing.
Dinner candles have long guttered,
and the white sun’s empty sheath littered
the room with dusk.
In the distance: barking of hounds,
static from a radio broadcast,
scraping back of chairs as the world
rises from its supper to see where the music
is coming from.