There's a church opposite seen from under the awning
Alice the waitress sits outside with a cigarette
her smoke blowing across the open door
photo of the lunching riveters astride
a New York girder tilting on the wall
bright leaves on the graveyard trees
I hold up a scrawled phonetic of a Romany hello
she frowns, shakes her head, mouths bunaziua
the only movements now inside or out;
its owner, legs apart, looks at nothing
a customer stares at his cappuccino froth
the local butcher, grey hair thick at the back,
chin resting on a hand
And you want to harvest it, bind it,
carry it home, place it on a sill in the sun
sit and look at it all, slowly, considerately;
Alice passes me as I rise from the table
la revedere she says
lahreveedaree I reply.