The waitresses’ teeth come. Face away. Back to conversations. When you feel that breeze. That is the rain. We're on the patio. I watch the couples. The temperaments changing. Friends and enemies.
"I have many," she says, holding it up. A $600 purse. The man does not care about the purse. To each
according to his. What is it? From each according to his will. No. To each according to his ability. That is not right. Anyhow, it does not work. See the hustle and bustle of the city. Bumping into a friend. Where
are you going? Where are you going? To
do my will: connecting trinkets below my ashy face. No. Wouldn't work. Have to be like animals
sometimes I’m afraid. A fight it is. Don't let them say different. They might like it even. The shoves of arithmetic. The owl. How many strokes.
She says, again, how this one is in
mint condition. He nods. Pleasant day. The rain’s
coming. Yawn. Mouth, a pocket for the rain. Talking about her purses she is. Sell this one, she says, to buy another that matches my smart jacket, fur-laced boots, tights to walk in, black tights, with the garters' straps connecting the lacy black underthings. Cream and coffee like. Oh Christ. Let her have it! The free market makes her naughty. From each according to each! To cover your. Fight for you to have
it, dear. And your purse. Dearest me. Purse your lips.
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