Sunday at Mugshots

 
 
 
she comes into the
coffee shop some
Sundays
 
brings her guitar,
writes and sings
her own songs
 
I watch her set
up her equipment,
go through her
paces
 
she dresses like a
flower from the
60's
 
and there is a warm
wind blowing across
Tuscany
 
as people sit at
an outdoor cafe,
drink expresso
in small white
cups and smoke
long, thin cigars
 
and the horse races
go on at Longchamp
where Debussy has
laid down a bundle
on the 5 horse in the
7th  
 
while in Vienna,
Freud and Jung
debate the meaning
of swords and trains
going through tunnels
in the dreamscape
 
and Spain still waits
for the ghost of
Hemingway to return
to the bull fighting
ring
 
she dresses like
a flower from
the 60's
 
she picks up her
guitar and begins
to play