. mop of medusa .
The floorboards of the cafe's patio rattle. Heavy guy come in. His eyes bulge.
He in his twenties, with beard and shorts and flip-flops. Froggy, he swallowed
something to make his world foreign, to erase his immediate surroundings, to sculpt
a dream. His hair a mop of Medusa. He whispers for our change. We chime "no".
He then hovers about another woman who sits alone, smoking a cigarette. He is
hopeful, humble. He waits for her sighing, shaking head. He leaves her to scoop
up the plateful of potato chips some hurried customer left, chips the sparrows
fought over ten minutes ago.
home . close