Another latte doesn’t kill the thirst
Residing in their breasts. No pastry creams
Today? Biscotti only, so it seems,
A taste defining boredom at its worst.
The afternoon unfolds like those rehearsed
In countless cafés petits where people dream
Beyond a clean, well-lighted place, but lean
Instead toward making life a restless curse.

And elsewhere, women firing shattered cries
For voiceless children maimed by mortar blasts,
Or mothers mourning for their vanished sons,
Might never understand this bistro life,
How each, apart at separate booths, combat
Such depthless wars involving only one.