Sunday Morning
A passing tram
and people
on Sunday morning walks
provide the pretext
of direction and give
a vague, comforting hope
that movement
has a purpose.
But the hard stuff
has a fuzzy core.
A ghostly roulette wheel
of what could be
makes the morning
ride the vagaries
of a spinning ball.
Yet all is anchored,
somehow,
to this lovely illusion
of a cafe table
on which there is
an arrangement
of perfumed flowers,
two cups of coffee,
two warm croissants
and you and me.
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