In The Angelfish Café
by John McCullough
The woman who says sorry to chairs
is pleased with her work. She’s used her tray
to build a city within the city – the teapot
her Pavilion, forks for piers, a ketchup church.
I picture the cast of residents, fire eaters
who charm lushes in a park of crusted mash;
squatters occupying mugs; the spoon’s shadow
flecked with pensioners in latex shorts.
But the Creator’s moseyed off. I sip my lemon tea
and gaze as the waiter grabs the corners
of the ocean and the entire city trembles and rises,
floats away beyond the walls of the world.
© John McCullough, from Spacecraft (Penned In The Margins, £9.99)
With kind permission of the poet