In the cafe words eat applesauce. They pull screams over their heads and work their jaws like valises. A grunt becomes a bison. A plate becomes a plain. Flocks of silverware are snared mid-air.
Coffee arrives in a khaki cup.
Power is spiced with mustard greens and curry powder. Future after future is chewed like newspaper in a paper shredder. Finally air is clear as starbreath. Peace is thicker than exhaustion. The words are finished eating.