Monday, July 8, 2019

cafe table hustle

against the table
the rain like nickles
from some lost pocket
discolored and
to the cold silver
speckled ground

under the tables
the spiders born in
back of taxis
new york to holbrook
never knowing their fathers
ask their mothers
how often in their lives
will they have to
watch the sky fall

and the answer unfolds over the
endless flooded grate

until they move the tables away
until they put the tables away

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