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Last Drink Mechanical Bird Head

The coffee-house looks like a photograph, Pre-digital, a faded more-than-real. Espresso and two cigarettes: a meal.* Reflected in the window, I’m a half- Step out of synch with moving in the flesh. Barista croaks “two lattes”, bobs his head, His long beak hazed with steam, his eyes dark red. The tip jar fills with cogs … Continue reading »

Categories: Clockwork, Exercise, Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment