Crazed man passes a café where
at six tables in the sun
of a late afternoon in May
in our nation’s capital, six women
sit drinking coffee
Windmilling his arms, he’s after a
bit of God force, of brash
poetry, of sustaining passion—wants, as
he croons it, “to sex them
all night long”
They do not look up, they
do not stop turning the pages
of their books, do not stop
sipping, swallowing; indeed, they
now swallow harder