The earth is turning like a violin.
I look out of the café window
at pinkness spreading beyond
a pigeoned dome, at the sun
pouring goodbye to the gingko tree,
brushing its leaves a yellow farewell.
Easeful of the dark, I drink some tea.
Teenagers gather on another table.
‘Who’s she with?’ ‘Who’s the drama teacher?’
A waitress brings them the empire
state of ices on a silver tray.
I think of the lonely mammoth tusks
I saw that afternoon in the museum,
who touch their tips after the staff
clock the doors and turn out the till.
No more tea and nowhere to go.
I look up at reflected car lights
that swim about the shiny ceiling,
pairs of red and white that dart across
a saxophone pond of speaker tunes
where lampshades hang like lily pads
fizzing in the strangeness of night.
