The clatter of the silverware 
is wind chimes over 
sparrowing laughter—four 
women in hijab chitter 

about tomorrow’s matching 
tattoos. This blood fills koi 
up in the pond, scales thrilled
to gape water for bread 

in the reeds by the dockside
restaurant, where the dapper 
Kevin waits on the ladies
overeagerly, 

stating, “We also have 
a chocolate bar compliments
of the house with a bourbon
infused set of bacon buns.”

The waiter expects 
the flapping trill of
charm and azure sky upon him 
and all of the chatter

falls to craning necks, 
bent wings, eerie silence
in the trees crowding
the table, one moving to say:

“Well, I do have some tape. It’s blue.”