Maria

In a café’ that’s dark, her lovely face shadows, she thinks of supermarket yards, dressed for night’s presence, across trolley she’s heard, they’ll take any bet, spirits with some spark, she comes here to allow, herself to carry on, it’s a rare clerk not cut to the marrow, when clearing her park, she can’t forget that lot, they don’t soar like arrows, precise in their movement, but feels their dreams makes lists when off clock, poetry’s her scene, if there’s ever a chart, to enumerate forebearance, then think of no-marks all of us vagrants.