xxxxxvi.

The harmonica whines, and I think,
that everyone is somebody’s dog

as I wait for the storm to come,

I feel the pressure rise

behind my eyes, every man

is a world.

In the corner, they’re talking about,

South Africa, and the piano clunks

through a love song, I thought
I saw a flash in the window,

but they talk in circles, and the

asphalt is empty.

Outside, the boy and the girl

shoot each other with their fingers

the dog jumps, and the ice squeals

in my cup, they stand up smiling,
at the corner of my eyes, and I

smile and hunch over.

The trees trace shadow,

on the clouds, and the singer

strums his guitar, my back aches

and the car that is parking, glows

so bright, in front of me she

sneezes, as the baristas rustle

behind the counter.

At the ending chord, another

song begins, I find myself

thinking--