Coffeehouse Sonnet (15)
Michael Ceraolo
The light didn’t glint in his eye:
it shone on the voluntarily bald head
stuck squarely on his shoulders
without benefit of neck
as he gracelessly waved his plate off the table,
probably inadvertently,
the crash compelling
a few seconds of stunned silence,
until,
unapologetic in word and deed,
he left,
and left the little pieces of his mess
for someone else to clean up
