After the turret stairs
- Arthur Broomfield (Ireland)
In
another time, when this is a theme park
or the
dredged remnant
of an
orange grove,
or the
Mars office of the New York
stock
exchange,
a
couple will surmise,
as they
stroll home in
a dewy
twilight, a cyber rose
clasped
in her hand,
that
here had been a coffee shop, once.
He
might say, those two used to meet here,
regular like, you know?
Oh! she may say,
listening
for the hiss of steam
from
the Costa Express
drift
across the ethereal,
I can
smell the cappuccino,
it must
have been something special.