alsha

I've been imbibing poetry like nobody's business all month, but I haven't yet contributed anything to the flow of creativity. Then the last day or so I had a work in progress that turned into something I'd be willing to bring in for show and tell. So here it is, for whoever's around. Mostly me.

At the Cafe

Sun-drenched warmth of a bench in summer.

Early to lunch with pencil in hand for
its suicide of lead-filled ambition:
to put meaning where elsewise is blankness

(there's wisdom in being else instead of
captive in eye stocks, perceiving only
what layers the world puts before you).

Patrons with cool glances and fizzy straws
brace in place the smug reality that
"This is it. This is all there is to it"

when really time moves differently than that.
Watching from the outside, then twisting,
everything's an epiphany of selves.