And I would wish for something elegant.
An inviting page, bound
perhaps embossed.
A heavy and handsome book,
inviting to touch.
I see the ones who look, those
who turn back in on themselves,
for them this invitation of small
square windows holds little appeal.
I hear the chatter, scent the
aroma of roasting beans
and I am hooked.
The door snaps open, a light shines.
Come in.
I see the strangers of this city cafe.
The fresh American girl
in her olive green military clothes,
all she owns slung in a back pack
and the old man who has come here
for months to look at bare legs.
His cappuccino cools unstirred.
He waits for some jewel of a moment,
when a woman sits back to laugh,
head thrown back, the synthetic cloth
of her blouse, tight.
Later he will return to his small flat,
watch films of a young Sophie Lauren.
He hasn't touched a woman in years,
no threat, he lives through his eyes.
Alone, all these people are alone.
I hope there may be a new moment,
one where laughter flows free and foolishly,
something fresh and vital,
so I can move and begin in small sentences,
rush at stale thoughts, like so many wild fires
licking at the dead or dying.
Neither good nor bad, right or wrong
and yes,
I'll be unsure,
sometimes faltering,
but persistent none the less.
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