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.