Peach tables, their pierced centres missing poles,
find their rounded edges subject to the cold.
It swept in overnight and lingers where, in shade,
peach chairs, their tough plastic unemployed,
sit back from the tables they suit on Porkchop’s patio.
Despite summer’s end & the danger of being carted off,
they look relaxed and are only missing butts and beers
as they watch me scurry to the other side of the street.
Can they be unaware that they only have each other now?
They’d best draw nearer, so as to save a little something
for the dark days ahead, which perhaps
will be warmed only by recalling the hell they once raised.