pink hippo milk drips
from the ceiling
and she overhears
then settles in

to eavesdrop on two women
at a table
on the mezzanine
above her

they compare notes
on the best Dyson
and flours not flowers
and she gets bored

wishes they would
bring up stories
about smuggling messages
written in lemon juice

buried in cigars
and mashed potatoes
to fellow revolutionaries
imprisoned on a treasure island

it’s all poetic decay
or smirking angel emoji
that operate in bad faith
from rickety funicular cars

not a true blue TARDIS
in sight

sexy transport
in the right light
a #1 train on elevated tracks
in the Bronx at dawn

the way low winter sunlight
reflects off metal
while railfanning
without a care in the world

she wants you to remind her
without persistence
make the banners that fly
over the beach temporary

so she can still see
the sky’s natural mural prophesying a return
of the street haunter