Writing at a small cafe
Gazing longingly at the
crumbs of my walnut cake
left over on the plate
My back to the window.

The sun is setting on the west
its hot rays baking my neck, my
shoulder blades a searing iron slate.

It’s beginning to become
kind of, unbearably hot,
kind of painful
There is no reason for me
to endure this fire
No test of gallantry
No need for punishment

There are rows of empty tables
swathed in shade,
empty seats like cool thrones–
I could easily, simply move.