4-8-13
Sitting at a bistro table, in one of the two chairs
Picturing a view of a diamond sky, and being entertained by the crowded streets of the night
My pointed toe traced the outlines of the cobbled stone,
A piece of concrete to record the history of the street;
raw, shiny, from all of the feet before me.
The waiter, a skinny, balding man brought my water and a straw
Two separate pieces laid out before me on the bistro table.
On the marble top that is speckled in brown, beige, and tiny geometric shapes of green
A sturdy image brought to life by Van Gogh in a dream;
Of make-believe, what we seek to define as real
To replay the conversations of the passer-bys of the night, and to question, dissect them.
As my fingers fuddled with the straw paper
Twisted the object, crumpling it, as if trying to figure it out too,
Only in touch and sensitivity;
Making common sense out of inanimate objects, and feelings
Trying to keep my hands busy, to steady the mind focused on the table itself, the bubble that I put in place to surround
Ignoring those who live in the apartments above, my reverie
And not looking at the others who may be:
Eating.
Dreaming.
Misdirectionally Thinking.
Bleating;
There’s nothing worse than distractions during our most important conversations, interactions.
The bubble succeeds in sheltering the lost minds who find themselves wondering,
always thinking, about everything.
But it’s tight, sometimes suffocating;
The force of the task creates awkward lapses in recreating,
Anything sensible at all.
It’s amazing how the barriers we create can feel like all of the weight of the World.
I fumbled with the wrapper, daring a few glances towards the doorway,
The gate of the future, blocked off to the sight of everyone, except me, from my seat
Still no one entered.
Losing patience of strength and pride, I contemplated rising, leaving, escaping.
Too many thoughts are too many enough.
But then, at the height of my anxiety, almost the last step up before the leap,
I felt a hand on my shoulder and knew that you had arrived.
The constant flow of penetration disappeared at that moment, and it was quiet.
It’s unmistakably rare to find ones to share the weight of the world.
To not feel alone at a picturesque marble bistro table,
Underneath a starry night.
I am grateful for all of the artists of the world. ❤
Muse Writer 