While tapping spoons inside the emptied teacups,
they share stories from their extraterrestrial lives.
Nothing hush-hush with them.
They are also master improvisers.
Anything that happens on their corner
they embellish. They build upon it, change it
in their thoughts. With voices like cymbals
they often challenge one another.
Singing scat, someone insults a new moon
who lost everything and began wailing the blues.
The new moon just wails even louder.
Competition is fierce.
When a could-be tenor sax saunters by, they alter
their rhythm. They pull in their best harmonies
before beginning their solos.