There were three tables at the outdoor coffee

café in a quaint, inland seaside town.

At one sat a solitary figure reading

a New York Times and glancing

periodically in irritation at the middle table and

all the commotion coming from it and flying

just above it.  Several sat crowded around

while Richard Wagner hovered, flying just

over their heads, baton in hand, arms flailing

at the wind, his big hair whipping left

and right with each swing of the arms,

spittle falling from the froth around his

mouth, hitting the ground and just missing

an old Chocolate Lab who lie panting

next to the table. Above Wagner, flew

the Valkyries in a frenzy trying to

keep up with the baton. Swords swung madly

back and forth clashing with sparks flying

and falling on the heads of those who

sat beneath. Their singing formed a funnel

cloud that moved up and down almost touching those

at the table among them Friedrich Nietzsche

who shouted something into Niccolò

Machiavelli’s ear and the two of them

laughed heartily, but no one else could get in

on the joke because of the storm clouds,

thunder and lightning above. At the

third table sat a real Aryan who looked

a lot like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and directly

across from him Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu.

They sipped their espresso and watched

each other very, very closely,

never taking their eyes off of one another not

even to notice what a nice late summer’s

day it was or even the ominous

tornado funnel hovering directly

over the middle table. Just under Wagner,

the Valkyries and the tornado tunnel

of operatic voices, sat an old, nearly

bald, white-haired, jowly white man

with hang-dog eyes, droopier than those of the

lab who sat near him. He wore a short-sleeved

shirt, baggy shorts and flip-flops which

revealed two bulbous bunions. He had

wobbly, knobby titanium knees with big scars and

spindly, varicose legs and arms with skin hanging

loosely down  to his wrists. With one shaky

hand he fidgeted with his to-go cup of

coffee and with the other he checked his I-phone

for incoming calls or texts. A pouty, protruding

ball of a belly was the last sign of  a left-

behind, corpulently indulgent life.

He felt the vibration in his hand, looked at the

phone, flipped the top, held it to his ear and

Thus Spake Zarathustra, “Yeah?” As he

spoke, a hint of last night’s vodka dinner

drifted up to a frowning Wagner. The Valkyries roared

with laughter, the lightning struck, the sparks flew.

The Chocolate Lab scurried under the

table and everyone ducked for cover

including the old, white guy.