Soft halo streetlights,
and cars whoosh by with
darkened windows.

Grey stone and red brick,
with a good shaking,
could lose feet of
street debris and soil.

At your whispered call,
you look ahead, never up,
while the stones are deafening
in their non-response.

Hands crammed in khaki pockets,
a certain wistful hope in the
cavernous abdomen.

Enter a small cafe,
almost despairing at the
barren ordinary lights and walnut,
round tables.

The Van Gogh paintings promised their
warm yellows and melancholy blues,
laughing men and women.
You are sure conversation would have been
scintillating, the drinks lukewarm.

Staring into your black coffee in a plain white cup,
there is no knowledge of the angel near you,
urging you to look higher.


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