Fists to the wall, my marble friend,
for who hears no chime
when the cup is set upon the porcelain?
If you lean in close, you’ll hear
sentences, casting around the four walls
whimpering in rhyme, dripping
in furnishing, fur lined
over long sips of hot tea
cozied up to the counter
longing to call it good—
Along the sidewalks trot
feathered dogs, feathered handlers
street signs graffitied with opaque rulers
laces tied in double knots
to hold shapeless against the wind.
A long sun rises and a short sun
asks if this table is taken
and the dove that nuzzles
into her rosemary nest
doesn’t move when I pick up the watering can.