The Writers Club
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This is the green we dreamed of yesterday,
One more April rebirth with red sun crashing
Like a wrecking ball atop purple hillsides
Sparking flakes of fire.
Down below, alongside Highway 23,
The neon sign of Hobart's Café blinks

A short-changed welcome three letters shy
While you sit inside at the only table,
One hand against a steaming cup of latte,
The other absently drumming
A red-checkered tablecloth creased and worn.
Jim Hobart says he'll keep an eye out for your bus.

Meanwhile, across town, in an empty house, if I
Could somehow through some April sleight of heart,
Interrupt your sadness, catapult myself
Into your Friday reverie, I swear this much:
I would conjure up a magic spell
To charm you and spring into staying here forever.



Copyright © 1998 by Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci
All rights Reserved

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