Let’s meet where the tables are empty
at 7. I can remember,
and so do not have to imagine,
the April evening light coming in
off the bricks, through the glass
rattled like snare skin by the bass
thrum of busses and trucks
on 65th. The tables round
and black, they really are
like pools of emptiness with glasses
of water suspended by life’s magic
antigravity effect, to say nothing
of the orbits of planets, that successful
reluctance to plummet into their suns,
even when life may not have begun
on most of them, there is no one
to meet, no table taking
the evening light back into blackness,
the suspense of love does not hover
in fingers lifting the specials sheet,
and there’s no coming of night
About Jed Myers
Jed Myers is a Philadelphian living in Seattle. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Nimrod International Journal, Golden Handcuffs Review, qarrtsiluni, Atlanta Review, Quiddity, The Monarch Review, Palooka, Fugue, The Journal of the American Medical Association, The Rose Alley Press anthology Many Trails to the Summit, and elsewhere. He hosts the long-running open-mic cabaret NorthEndForum and sets poetry to music in the ensemble Band of Poets.
