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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.



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