It's Still Life

On the Occasion of the Poet’s Being Challenged

There’s an air of atheism about a plastic flower,
no matter where it is, it just seems wrong. And,

I never grocery shop on an empty stomach,
which is why I’m at this tiny tired cafe , sitting
on a plastic chair with oilcloth-covered cushions.

The waitress, whose name is Friday, according
to her name tag, is astonishingly slow, but
I’m not the sort to complain, except within

my own defenceless head, so I’m stone-stoic
and smile when Friday brings my coffee (white
with no sugar) and a slice of lemon drizzle cake.

There’s a grey looking man with a thin hooked
nose over in the corner. He’s whistling. Not a tune –
just three notes. The same three notes over and
over, or a song thrush’s 3 note song without end.

As he whistles, a woman in a pale yellow blouse