Cummer in the earliest Fall

The singer seamlessly stops mid-lyric and slings a breathy “hey” my way
as I wait for the waitress, shoulder to the wall.


Plate glass reflecting shifting shades of surrealism (and painted sunglasses?)
refract a popular culture that aged out of power decades ago. 

I’m fidgety at a table by myself, trying to channel this energy properly but
my pen taps mad against the paper.

Brain, be still.

It’s actually still warm outside but
inside the Atrium the best kind of chill has descended,
driving my fists inside pockets.

“Stand by me,” on repeat, three words exhaled through gap teeth.

Listen: to electric guitar somehow quietly shredding,
to the soft back and forth pad of of the singer’s feet.

Listen to the shotgun scooch of cafe chair against carrara marble.

This music is more suited for fields
trodden down by gathered bohemians
than this current configuration of whispering art patrons

And when the singer drifts off key
doubtless no one notices ‘cept me and that’s fine-
I can keep my mouth shut.

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