Writer In A Coffee Shop
Nobody sees as we do
— a conspiratorial attempt at flattery,
rising up from the books on the slanted shelves.
Vinyl albums are fixed to the ceiling,
you can get a stiff neck
searching out the soundtrack to your life.
Upstairs the sound of a tattooist,
reminds him of the dentist,
sets his teeth on edge,
of mottled brown.
He hears it still, that night
as she lies with her face to the wall,
a tree brooding in the back garden;
across the rooftops thoughts dissipate
yet still, that sound,
into goose flesh