She’d been sitting
On such pretty hot days she sits and makes lists.
Out her box window, she watches the café,
the bent backed couples, coughing up quiet lettuce,
the wiped table tops, all glittering.
The greek dishes with the baby onions are best,
the umbrella spokes sing to her, and suddenly
the shade is a veranda and she is staring at an emerald eyed fly
squat on her forearm.
The singer says to her that she is more,
so she crease folds her printer paper into menu shapes
makes an apron out a tea towel,
bends to attend to the dresser
and accidentally breaks each plate cheek
with salt and pepper lines of sobs.
