People were lined up at least seven deep.

They wanted red meat and kale

and deliverance from endless flossing.

I only wanted cookies.

The rain clouds were moving in.

Cookies were being baked in a corner.

A coffee display toppled over.

A woman with caterpillar lashes sold stamps.

A tabloid extolled the bravery of couture.

A baby cried.

I wonder how Gershwin would score this.

I know Man Ray would see a tragicomedy.

I would take tea from a chipped cup in Dresden

and imagine a garden of books

with some pages filled, some open and empty.