A fine, people watching space
A good place to hang your paintings
It is though a café; which whilst
Not a restaurant will still give you
Punters for you to look down upon
Somewhere to listen
To the chitter chatter
A mirrored resemblance
Of your nothingness
And then there is me
He who wants to write a poem
As pure, as sure
As your infinity pictures
The poem will be
All of the words in the world, piled
Indecipherably, one upon another
Or there won't be any words at all
No, that’s it, no words whatsoever
