by James Grinwis
Two women and a man
sit on a bench.
Then another woman
comes up. The man seems
three-eared. I am surrounded
by beer bottles and waiters.
They throw their eyelashes
in my soup as if
to scare me. They
feel contempt for a man
drinking, a dog tied
to his chair beside a plastic
water cup. There are couples
and couples drinking
and smoking cigarillos,
fluctuating between flirtation
and dismay. The town
is a constant flux. Sometimes waiting,
sometimes hanging onto
the stems of itself
like a brutally organized plant.
Something has taken me
where I am, and what to do
is something besides. The thing
to be thought about
was almost like romance.
It was supposed to be
this really great idea.