Shift Commences

Six on the dot. The container shutter rattles up. Steam lifts. I tap, take the long black, step clear of chatter. Benches spread across the cobblestones; I walk the arc to the last one. I sit. Heat climbs the cup into my hand, throat, chest. Pen. Pad. Not a diary. A trap. Thoughts flare, then run. I net dreams, pin the dark to the margin, put a fantasy on shift. The council mower grids the oval. Dogs map their loops. I face the jacarandas. The page lifts, settles. I clock on to the quiet and let it speak.

shutter up, steam threads
jacaranda confetti
ink squares the far bench

F.S.F