in my periphery, no one is a stranger.
a spat of ghosts laughing out loud.
in a past life I was a clown;
I keep a red nose in my pocket
that I can don in a pinch.
anybody walks in here
and orders a macchiato, for instance.
hats and faces,
faces making kissy–faces,
braggadocios,
putting goose–flesh on my arms.
I’m hungry.
worms munch until they’re liable of silk.
I’m heartbroken like a hobby horse
without its track suit.
it’s old news.
it’s a crying shame, like eating walnuts
in the morning.
the virtual bartenders around here
really know their brandy, their Cognac,
and regularly impress the pants off workaday drinkers.
as in, top–of–the–line vanishing tricks
pre–ordered from Ireland, plus certain acres
of musty emerald pasture that’re exactly
what your head smells like.
only fancy people receive mail on Sundays:
packages delivered by postal workers
wearing updated pith helmets,
causing them to resemble the 14th Duke of Mandas.
for six months, the 14th Duke of Mandas was out hunting on safari.
the Duke of Mandas, like all true Spaniards,
despised the taste of Cognac.