Language
I might as well talk about the rain.
I sat at the cafe, Amici,
Backed into the corner
By the backs of heads,
No more or less judgmental
Than any other surface.
A college-age girl sat
In the opposite corner,
Reading a book
In a black square of leather seats.
There’s nothing like the pink half-light
And a pretty Italian coffee
To bring out the colors in a woman.
I watched through the disused door
By the sidewalk tables,
As the rain-soaked streets slowly dried
In the pale cast of the cloudshine.
I’m a little disappointed
When the sun returns.
There’s something sad
About watching the deep brown
Of the rich anti-stone
Fade into the unembellished greys
Of every day.
So I sat watching the patchwork patterns
Rising to the blacktop,
Like a language,
Spelling out the fallen secrets
Of the dreaming motorists.
