Whole Moon Cafe

Homity pie
and loss Poems That Make Grown Men Cry
House blended black
perfuses dust through the airing rack
welds tissue paper chain creations
to the window
Biscotti crumbs
sit in the rhythm of zills and drums
Crannies and nooks -
oldfangled alcoves all lined with books
Each stair a creak
whitewashed elm treads (more shabby than chic)
to the first floor
An hour that wiles
appliquéd spoons over fused glass tiles
Artisan froth -
decoupage bakeware and wire-stitched cloth
Twisted tie-dyes
self-consciously lure bemused, tired eyes
through the window
Pain reminding
a Nitemare Hippy Girl rewinding
lids hinge rattling, glazed toast-tottery
My cup is cold,
my hands wouldn't hold; your tip has rolled
down through the floor
Pith to ponder
thoughts gather together and wander
back through the door.