by Alan Britt
In the Jerusalem Cafe
half-shadows
rub their thin waists
against a red brick wall
I pour a tall glass
of sadness
down my throat
The metaphor
drips
from my chin
The olive girl sings
as she leans against
my curved iron blood vessels
My cool eyes tarnish in a stream
of fishlight
that falls through the sidewalk window
Two rivers pull on clean shirts
& swim the other way
The hot afternoon with breasts
of humidity
swallows my wandering
lost body
in one gulp