Coffee with Peter

Peter arrived in a taxi, we were just in time
to see the Jack Yeats, all those blues made me
feel sad. On the way, in Stephen’s Green
a man and a woman balanced on a rope strung
between trees, she kept falling. After a while,
I stopped looking. Tall yellow trees wrestled
their skirts at us and swore. Cyclists flitted past
dropping packs to junkies in shrubs. Peter said
he knew a rooftop café we should try, I wanted
to go to the Shelbourne but they were only serving
residents, we decided not to go to MoLi after all.
Overhead a loft of pigeons swooped figures of 8,
my feet began to hurt. The café was indoors so
I didn’t consider it rooftop, the girl there didn’t
know what a small americano was. Buskers sang
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