Fourth Coast Cafe, 12am
I can smell her
mentholated breath,
even from this dim corner,
this
smoke encrusted place.
She floats in air, legs folded under
skirt, not touching the floor.
Writes in
littlegirl flowerbooks,
a
uruof the
dispossessed.
She is one of us, we who
hover
as
images, at the end of
everything.
I can see our
status with the world,
refugees of corridors of endless
self-help bookstores. Blearily
peeping from
buckets of bloody memories,
victims all of us, masters of
caffinated lies. Our atmosphere,
fetid memory of
burnt offerings to
one hundred thousand
nameless gods.
Absence permeates this place,
she shares it.
Every shakyhand
cigarette light
is echoed.