A French Café Poem by Mukesh Williams

There's always a narrow passage
In a big city that
Leads to a quiet cafe
Unhurried, quiet, half lit,
In the controlled ambiance
Of trumpet music
Behind the clatter of plates and
The low hubbub of talk.

If you are lucky
A pretty girl could walk across
Balancing a tray of coffee and cake
Then throw off her sandals
And sink into the sofa next to you.
She might prefer that you watch
Her silver painted toenails,
Or her legs tucked under
Somewhat unobtrusively as
She leafs through a fashion magazine,
Or fiddles with her silver ketai,
Or stretches her body,
Or sighs,
Or sips her coffee,
Or nibbles at the cake,
Or gets up, walks to the staircase and
Then returns to relax once again
In an undefined proximity.

Sipping emotions
Through a corridor
You enter a quiet haven
Only to recall memory's
Half-forgotten passages,
Those throbbing promises,
Empty retreats,
Apocalyptic finalities
Almost forgetting the throbbing warmth
Collapsing inward as a silver ketai,
The almost tactile passion
Of a public space,
The taut skin
Upon the staircase and the
Silver toenails curving in;
Then you suddenly return to the
Placating smoothness of sipping
At the edge of the warm cup.

Behind the clatter and the hubbub
The trumpet accelerates
A staccato passage
Punctuated by the squeak of the sofa,
The warm roundness of a sip,
The languorous stretching of the body,
The palpable ardor of retreat,
The gentle ruffle of pages,
The chafing of the jacket against the table,
A furtive look,
A pleasurable sigh,
A redolent glossing of lips
As your mind separates the
Private and public taxonomy
Discreetly moving up along
The subterranean cleft
Feeling an intimate chemistry
Of some unexplored promise.

A narrow passage
Briefly leads you
Into a seductive compromise
Where beguiling artifice
Plays tellingly upon life and
Inarticulate proposals
Lead you cunningly
Into a quiet corner.