At Les Deux Magots
The bloom on the fruit is perfect.
His moist eyes are fixed on her.
As he hands her plumms she thinks
he is the kind of man who'd kiss her
on the lips in friendship,
to whom she's try to turn a cheek in time.
The way he gives me ripeness
when what I want is something raw.
And old memory makes the blood
rock in her veins: a glimpse of Ford
in the street, his face turned from her,
his arms full of books,
that moment polished like a piece of bone.
Her thoughts are all crooked now,
her hands cold in their thin cotton gloves,
she takes the plums from him dumbly.
No, Go On
For years he's gone over her parting words,
the ones she couldn't pack. They are printed
in the circles under his eyes. They come to mine
each night at 5 a.m., when the first trains start
and the moon bottles itself outside his door.
He is caught like a wheel on her shimmering track.
Over breakfast the rush hour begins and he wants
me to wait, starting another sentence that he just
let fall away. And I'm saying, no, go on, finish what
you were about to ...I'm with you. I'm following so far.
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