You ate cherries in brandy
and couldn’t stop laughing.
The regulars at the bar,
the old waiter carrying schnapps,
the violinist stroking Vivaldi,
the gods in the fountain,
everyone and everything
seemed soft,
brushed with a shimmering
from the tops of trees,
gesturing slow motion:
leaves to the sun.
Then sunlight sped.
Shadows on the cobblestones
drew a hypotenuse.
One couple left, and two more.
I craved another gin,
but they folded umbrellas
and you looked away,
smoothing your hair
under the brim of an oval hat.
“It’s getting cold,” I said,
for nothing else to say.
I must have seen you again
but I don’t remember anything you said,
just your postcard
from somewhere in Spain
reminding me how we left the café
through the wrought iron gate,
stood hand in hand on the corner.
We didn’t want to leave,
me to my office,
you to your house,
to your husband.
We wanted to stand there forever
in the happy confusion
of an October afternoon.
The driver of a hansom
waved at us with a folded whip,
cracked it near the horse’s shoulder
and rumbled past,
the spoked wheels turning,
turning fast.