There are museums with neo-doric columns
to visit. Monuments from the worst war
to behold, haunting the backdrop of everyday life
like original sin.
But right now, all I want to do
is sit by this cafe's open window,
away from the heady mid-day sun
and speculate: who will be the next
to read the books about culture and angels
sitting so high on the decorative shelves?
These volumes exist here as dead weight,
as though without the literary gravity
imparted by heaven and art
the caffeinated drinks with Italian names
and the sufferable music they call "Deep House"
would tear the whole building free of the sidewalk,
heavy steel cables in the walls straining and snapping
bass-toned twang, dangling from jagged concrete like
silver spaghetti, shining in the sun.
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