Happy hour at the Lotus Cafe
and there it is, shimmering
like the glassy, sunlit face of a wave
towering over our heads.

Beneath the pounding
of the stereo and the clink
and chatter of the patrons
the silence is unshakable.

Staring at the bottom of my
empty cup, I discover
I’ve also drunk the future.
The King slowly winds his way

up Market Street on a
cheap mountain bike while
the man at the next table
leans forward and says I saw
the flowers on the moon.