In any cafe

You are touching me,
the word is saying.
The eyeball bats its lashes.
Stop holding me, the hand is saying,
leaving only sweat smudges.

When you look at me, and I feel
I feel—

that particles of air are incinerating
the hair of my forearms,
and that tiles are made of electric sand.

If I could help it,
I would be the giant fern in it's fern pot beside
that mouse in the corner
(yellow walls and uneven, circular tables)

As I see it,
we are both only good for hands on a table,
so I watch the mouse instead.

The mouse thinks:
there are too many computers;
not enough crumbs
and I agree.