Picking up onion slivers from beneath the cafe bench,
walking to the garbage, shoving the door open with my pinky knuckle,
might not be a good beginning, but it is mine tonight.
At the point of being ready for the silent noise of opening my laptop,
hallowing my poetic muse (who are you, are you many? Thank you),
I watched the picked-out food slip between wooden slats.
I did try, to ignore them there in a little pile on the cement,
carry on as if I were sure to remember, at the packing up from this solitude,
to discard my hiding refuse, but it was loud, the onion thought.
It hovered, static interference. So I’ve been to the garbage can and back.
And my muse, she is mischievous, offering only this poem(?)
instead of a ten line tale telling the other story,
of Sunday evening quiet on the cafe porch at dusk.