My Old Friends

Cli and ché stopped by today.
The Whore and her Horseman.
They rode in unexpected,
unnoticed by most.
The Unread saw what they were-
ghosts of undead poets.

We swallowed stinging gulps
from hot orange cups
brimming with constant comments.
Our pinkies stuck up
content to ignore
tasty poetic phrases
daintily placed in circles
on plates on my table.

My old friends were removed
when a new bird flew into my hair.
I was happy to let her nest.