Eva M. Olsgard
Sidewalk Cafe in August
Busboys fasten closed the glass doors
and arrange the tables inside
like petals of giant forget-me-nots.
On each they light a candle, set places,
turn wine glasses into bell jars.
Dressed in his white apron,
his empty fry pan ready on the stove,
the cook cracks open the kitchen window
to watch sparrows peck the grass.
When they can find no more to eat,
they lift one by one into the air, drift,
and scatter, gently, upon the ground
like bread crumbs shaken
from a clean dry cloth.