In the Paris Cafe

on Rue Des Barres

I see you are hungry.

You need a cold drink.

Your thirst isn’t quenched.

You flirt with the waiter,

who looks like Chagall

with his curved archer smile.

Nothing is wrong.

He responds to your mirth.

Your hands

the wings

of a trapped butterfly

flutter and flap.

You are trying to grip.

Your twinkling eyes and deep-seated desires

have more rising steam than the dish he presents.

You’re on fire.

It’s a sign of your burgeoning age.

But it’s not as late as you fear.

I take a sip of clear water

That’s all I now need.

I don’t want fancy wine anymore.

I am fine.

Lean back in your chair.

Relax at my side.

I have told you before

How deeply I care.

The future is certain, open and wide.