Branches

Change slapped down on the counter,

the coffeehouse poets look back

at the bearded, old man asking for decaf.

The freckle-faced bard at the mic recognizes him,

tells the crowd of college students,

hippies, and two grandmothers

that Charlie is a haiku poet

who knows how to float from branch to branch,

even when there are no trees.

Charlie laughs at that assessment,

but is somehow pleased, too.

Pleased enough to take a notebook

covered with peace signs

out of his backpack

and perch himself on the stool

in the middle of the room.

He takes a deep breath,

releases it:

each branch

catching moonlight

together, alone