From a Cafe Table
In this hour
they called it the French lace minutes
the sound of autumn leaves falling
unbearable to the ear
I slip out in the
echoing space
between now
and then
it's an insect like feeling
that buzzes around
too fast
to be recognized
then a coat slides to the ground
heels are clapping hands with wooden floor
ashtrays are laid to rest
and on a bus ticket my pen is scribbling
you are here
you are here
you are here
© Gry W Christensen
|