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