Dawn: a thin band of vivid pink. I glance down at my coffee,
and when I look back it’s gone, the sky is gray.
In the crowded station, volatile citrus spray.
I look around but cannot find the orange rind.
New girl at the coffee shop— Between taking orders, her brown
barrette glints like a clipped accent from somewhere else.
Where did the four green slices of starfruit go?
The pineapples on the serving plate are silent.
Last night, in my living room, the poet who wrote of temples
and butterflies slid off his sandals and padded barefoot to the dinner table.
—Luisa A. Igloria
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.
UPDATE: Some more poems happening in the comment thread over there.