seven in the evening
here in the small café
in Rasputin's
I sit alone amid the empty tables
and wait, as the first arrival
for the Chilean reading

Dean, the host, owner
afficionado of the arts
and baking enthusiast
puts the finishing touches
to the cheesecake he’s creating
as he calls out his familiar hello to me
caught up in his masterpiece

the stage with mic stand silent
around me the walls display
paintings by local artists

outside a hum of cars and buses
and the sidewalks moist
from an earlier rain
air tingling fresh

and as I stare at the stage area
I discover, on the wall ahead of me
a silhouette of roses and baby’s breath

the dark grey form
a scene of its own
sprigs and curls in design
lace pattern at a standstill
separate and alive
detached from its source

a visual echo of the
vase of pink roses
and white blooms
a spin-off cast
from a proud centering
on a table
I have the time
not another soul
arrived yet

I find my pen, then
search for the words
the arrangement of lines
for my own bouquet

as if both the silhouette and I
know that
I will need to try to make
a capture before the light will change

the effect become a memory

so I work toward my dream of a
masterpiece
as the café owner works on his

until the crowd begins
to arrive, small groups
or couples
greeting with hugs, holas
and handshakes
and stepping in between
my subject and myself
as the moment ends

06/02/2004