The Last Long Lunch Poem by keith brown

Sun beat black holes in the pavement.
Limbs entwined, a vine wrapped around a bough?
Black tarmac plain traversed, beneath a canopy of a fragile leaves,
an empty table beckons
Filtered light strikes warped and weathered timber,
horizontal interludes, ensnare leaves and stale chips,
wine glasses teeter, then, ring with the sibilant
sound of a far away call to prayer.
Wrought iron chairs: strange bedfellows: comfortable,
disrespectful of age or position surround aged staves.
Idiomatic chatter narrates the passing of a week
An Indolent breeze pulls at flaccid bunting, time
metronomes a larghissimo beat.
The sun call's time!

Our canopy of leaves offers no further service, as
day defends its dying light,
Night emerges from the throes of a dying sun.
Awaiting the stroke of eight, amid blue flashing light
Telephonic sound and fleeing mind, the day caste to
Indelible memory or desolate wit
Tomorrow's covenant extinguished!