She’d been sitting

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.