"1st Place Winner of the Open Community Poetry Contest for the period July 1-Sept. 30, 2012."--ed.
At the Viand Coffee Shop...
on Madison Avenue
which must not be confused
with the Viand on East 86th
or the Viand on Broadway
come the young ladies fresh from
their visit to the Met
or, if they dare, the Whitney
because one can only
take so many Rothkos
or Van Goghs
in a morning
wearing their
dazzling tennis whites
which have never seen,
and will never see,
a ground stroke,
as they pick apart their
salads
and each other.
Now enter
the ladies
bearing handbags
with names
like children,
the real thing
of course,
no knock offs here
as they survey the
dieter’s special
and eye the desserts
cordoned off
behind the counter.
Their conversations hushed
as they spread
butter
and gossip.
Two blocks away
from the Viand Coffee Shop
on Madison Avenue
which must not be confused
with the Viand on East 86th
or the Viand on Broadway
stands a refugee
from Senegal
as black as the plum
into which she bites,
its juices dripping
down the side of her hand,
as she quickly sets up
her display of
counterfeit handbags
on the street-corner.
She is
real;
the plum is
real;
the bags –
as she will quietly tell you
in her rich Senegalese accent,
with her breath scented by plum -
are beautiful,
but fake.
