The skull at the piano is out of sympathy with the regulars,
his words surf by their ears. He proposes new ways to inhabit
our city; heavy as a sandbag, not necessarily trustworthy.
Using a silver spoon, he eats a dozen raw eggs; the yolk blood
spilling from curves of matching hollows.
A customer takes offence. ‘You are a regular pest sir, with bees
crossing your brow; they sink into the Grand Canyon of your lines.
You are a different breed sir, scratching at your recently healed cheek.’
My active hope: that your views will not match theirs. I admire
the way he bends in winds strong enough to force me horizontal.