Birds perch in the waiter's slung earlobes.
“Sparrows sleep on the wing like Oprah Winfrey
between takes," he explains,
“their nightmares are of unfalling,
of waking trapped under a six-tog duvet
in a room where light seeps
through PVC panels of trick-sky:
each attempt to fly free, punished in exact
proportion to their desire for escape."
Our ashtray threads a noose. The waiter
does not speak English. His hair is the hair
I had as a twelve-year-old, but so right.
Such sweet relief, to wake up falling.