Busy Starbucks Midtown, young family quickly
settles itself around a little table,
the daughters look 7 and 9, have long coats.
Mother goes off with the younger.
The older holds a small dog and says to her father,
“You’re a better cook at lunch and Mommy’s
a better cook at dinner, do you agree?” Years later,
that girl expresses her anger. The mother says,
“But what about that Friday after Thanksgiving,
remember we sat in that Starbucks at Broadway and Bond?
Don’t you remember how happy we were?”
Around the blue eye of the mother turns the city,
countless pairs of eyes drift like tumblers with lost keys.
Who can hold it all together.
Who will come sit with me at this table.
fiction poetry "fact" photography