Café intimacy.
- 1 day ago
- 2 min read
Grounded I am.
Café intimacy: How deliciously to savor. Grounded I am, in coffee.
The steam gets out of hand. Whiling the way beside the windowpane. I notice the condensation; It appears on the glass, the window. I am reminded of a dark painting; that’s how it looks to me now.
No streetlights, nor semblance of commerce. Small town, just desserts.
The cold hearth, cobblestone, these are nature’s dark fury now. No warmth of fire, nor sacral flame.
Vanquished all are the bustling pedestrians, gone with the ardor of my memory. No longer, no lightness casting its shadow.
The afternoon darkens me to night.
No more trumble on the streetcar, scant clad with summer sun. The tourists fled leaving the quietude of seashore.
Not even themselves to remain; the souls gone as well: bags and parcels carried away. With them, trinkets and memories. The ferry and its winds are gone.
The solace of a wave, the finality caresses, the sand emollient, salt water foaming and fading. A sandpiper takes flight.
The sun finally sets, red light paints the seaside village. Shuttered. A flight, so thorough. Again outside I turn to look from my vantage in temporary warmth. Sweltering sheets, misdirected wind. The frigid begins its December.
The rainy advance, time for shadows. Picture the impending commerce, Christmas with its lights. “All for later on,” I mull. Vendors sell, eggnog, wares. Deserted is the frigid beach. The sandpipers are strangely absent.
And then—“And then,” I think. I picture the ferry docking, you stepping off. Focus. Brighter lights. Embark on, a bigger town. The culture of its industry. All this. Beyond the island wheatgrass.
Dunes baked by summer sun. Parapet guards, the island, the sea. Sand, pebbles, the mix too hot. I flinch while you laugh at me, to see me suffer in delight. To touch, to walk over. Sharpness, the green grass, the edge to cut the hand. Whilst we rummage, look for more sea glass.
Remind the sensible: how long to linger, to be baked in the sun?
But for now:
My mind’s eye, so clearly, now that the rain batters outside. The picture, I see: New, a vibrant place. Now this island in its bleary rain.Beyond the island wheatgrass.
Beyond the blonde.
I’ll Take the Blonde, by James Legare 8-26-26
Pablo Ruiz Picasso
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