(in the presence of famed authors)
their eyes pin you
down; accusing
from the walls
the eyes of Twain, or Joyce or Shelley-
what crime did I commit
against literature or other?

(to read and to eat)
The smell of coffee hangs in the air
more permeating, maybe
than the new books

(contrasting)
Union Square is three stories below
the greenmarket is bustling, busy
here it is
still

(near the tables)
Ignore the cluster over the cookbooks
the clacking nearabout computers
the murmurs by magazine and medicine
in the café I can read

(my favorite place)
Even when busy, there’s peace
maybe not calm-
energy, and no discontent
us
united together by pages
by ink
by glue
bound