Post #6: Writing Group

My writing group has gone sour.
You must tell me what images you see:


Exhibit

The sign read: Café.
But he wasn’t so sure.

On one foot he stood
at the mahogany counter
poised with a flaming pink tie,
pruning, if you will.

He watched Ariel float by
with lacquered sea weed
for hair, spread thick on the canvas.
Her sea-shelled breast looked awkward.

Alligator shoes lounged
nearby under the table lamps.
Yawning. Laptops opened wide.
Numbers flying. Steam rolling.

He walks among them;
They look to the walls.


I'll let you know the insult they gave me soon.