Hardly anyone would think, 

I suppose, of the varnished 

Hardwood chairs worn by constant 

Waiterly wiping—how they might 

Miss the weight (or absence) 

Of the haunches of post-prandial 

Coffee drinkers. Or how the chairs’ 

Heavy feet might scrape, with a sharp

Squeal, the red Vigan tile floor, 

Like the proverbial tree falling 

In the forest, unseen, therefore

A dubious occurrence. The delicate 

Grid of the picture windows, 

The wood-and-glass doors to one side—

All in silhouette—keep the park and 

Sunlight out: they never give a hint 

Of another leisurely Sunday, 

In another park, which had a crowd, 

A lake, was colored, and (like

A shimmering memory) pointillistic. 

And so with light pastries amid

Mahogany shadows, we claim this

Café to ourselves: In the emptiest 

Quiet of this impromptu afternoon.

 

 

                      For Mike & Annie Molina

                      And Grace Bañez,

                      5 November c. 2009

 

 

Marne Kilates

24 June 2020

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