Misdemeanors

Misdemeanors

Out front a cafe two folding chairs sit together,
a couple; a third to the side, a therapist or priest.

Between them a folding table. Even in bright sun
they are obviously waterproof. Longing for cotton

lycra blends, the chairs strike inviting poses
near a happy face chalked on the sidewalk.

After some time one chair challenges me.
“Why are you sitting over there?” I wish

I was waterproof too. The table is level
on rough pavement--no coffee would spill.

The chairs are similarly competent and measure
their worth in conventional terms:

number of butts cradled, calves itched,
how they stand up to weather. In these

terms they are feeling blue. They strive
to take each moment as it comes.

They imagine their each thought
is a white fluffy cloud crossing the sky.

"Oh it’s there. Look!” they say to each other.
A crow is not measured by who slips

past his perch. A flower, not by how
many bees drink her honey.

The table and chairs resist being swamped
by externalities they can barely influence much

less control, but most days they struggle.
I fold them, and sneak them onto my patio.

I place a budding pink rose in a vase
on the table's brave surface.

It complements the table.
My small crime.