“I drink red rose tea,” she said,
“Green tea is too healthy for me.”
“Too healthy?” he said, and then they proceeded
for over ten minutes to talk about tea.
I am having a headache. My head sits next to me.
We don’t discuss teas, we revolutionaries,
we’re above that; we discuss my old glove that
has a hole, lets the wind in to my skin inside.
Something must be done about it.
The sunlight humping my table knife is a violent world by itself.
The café I’m in has “quirky-fun” names for dumb things like steamed milk.
There’s a quiet violence in every glint of the cashier’s pinky ring.
I sit in silence and watch the sun make angry everything.