Making Something of It

   

I sit
in the sun
in morning air
at the cafe
that wasn't here
last week
and wait
for this poem
The waitress has blackened hair
and an atmospheric accent
brings me $1.58
worth of coffee
and morning bun
on new white stoneware
doesn't serve poems
so I wait
The morning bun is dry
she brings more coffee
and I think
of the things
that have started
at breakfast
Two tables over
the frightened bird
of a woman's hand
starts
shivers
settles into smooth swoops
Her friend
uses her own hand
like an open jaw
teeth-fingers poised
then, as in a kaleidoscope
the elements shift
become a gilt-handled
sword
its meagre point
piercing air repeatedly
And again
a new thing
fingered hinge
between check and neck
her face swinging
serene and constant nods
But this
is not it
A fuzzy-coated bee
blows in
stares me down
from the place
where my small meal sat
I move one seat over
giving him berth
and I think
the problem is not
with starting