Soprano Over Breakfast

She called. A formal invitation. On the phone, "breakfast," she said.
I showed up. A bygone cafe. Vienna. Low lamps. Grand chandelier.

Glance across the room. Landed across my eyes. Sipped tea. Quietly.
We greeted. Spoke monosyllables. All threaded in meaning.

We faded away. I stood. Departed. Foot first. Body second.
She opened her mouth. And sang. Soprano note at perfection.

I looked at her. A black woman. A white Russian. No teeth.
The lights dimmed when the door shut. A soul left the room.

Stepped on the street. A car approached. Drove straight into my skull.
Thoughts clashed against the hood. Thoughts, blew up in irrelevance.
Feelings oiled the street. Made of rock. Solid. Crystallised.

Dismembered ears heard another note. The Soprano sang again.
Just like that. Dead without knowing love. Breakfast frees.