Old King Sol reigns/over port cities/he yearn to catch/both the heat and cool./You wish to rise/with bristling power/your battered hands. To thrive unmolested tethered to wharves. Pushing glass doors/after neon signs/for the warm tincture/she calls black coffee./Smiling and saying/”I am from Greece.”/Under the awning/her broken speech./ With customers reputed/as strongmen and stooges/But she tells me/you and I/are simply tough customers.
Tough Customers
0
Poetry in Motion 