sitting in the new warm world, drinking tea in the wooden womb, watching a trio of booted gazelles, huddled just outside, negotiate their plans for an unlaborious day. the sky is clear and just past pastel, the dusty morning sunlight attempting lemonade. a masked man swathed in charcoal sweater & sweats bombs twelfth avenue the opposite way while the twin of a not sold friend sings in the background, i think, i am singed in the black ground, divorced from home. i look over to the angular woman behind the counter, across the room, to ask the name of the song that's been playing. she points to the old woman wearing a yellow, duck billed cap, collapsed in the blood burgundy easy chair, eyes shut, head tilted back, mouth open as if in awe, her german shepherd, harnessed & leashed for service, dozing lightly on the scuffed floor beside her. the angular woman behind the counter points at them and makes the sleepy steeple sign with her hands, pressed against her cheek and says, "precious." i get up from my table and ask, "is that the name of the song, precious?" no, the angular woman says. the old woman sleeping with her dog, that's precious. the song's called "she's so sweet."
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