A cafe poem for my day off.

In full view of the books for sale.

Arriving late one boy takes position
as the grinning mediator, involved only
by not playing and with access to all the tiles.

This place, lined with spines of hints and names
lost once to golden notoriety, is perfect for this game
but they debate the existence of bonny

without checking once. Talk of Thai massage
is actually charming for their age: there's something
about the red leather sofas, the easy company

they keep. They're still talking words: horn isn't horny
just because of the crucial y, my toes and tea
exist now but are cooling fast. Talk turns to celery

while the boy without any tiles at all moves slickly
between them, easing letters into quiet conversation
and voicing devolve so all of them can hear.