Table —Elizabeth Moura

“No initials.”

In the café of dreams the shutters are blue,
A crackled blue; I often sipped next to them,
When the sky was calm, the clouds like milk.
Memorabilia clung to the walls,
Thrift store antiques, strangers’ follies.
The bare tables were carved up
By knives of anxiety. Cuts. No initials.

Subtle. —Elizabeth Moura

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