Our Table at the Café Terrace at Night
what if we decide to be public about it? nothing terribly
elaborate, just a cup of tea, just a rude little cafe
and we pick our table.
you point to one along the wall, and say you’d like
that one but it’s occupied, and so we drag another chair out
to one situated on the cobblestone, not so wobbly as it looks.
your face looks swollen, eyes tired, too much
late night studying, so many papers to write, I guess, I hardly
know what to say, but want to say you are still beautiful,
and the stars remind me of that big Starry Night T-shirt you
used to wear, and that you loved Vincent: Vincent, my new
home, where I invite you in and we talk and touch.
the people look old and foreign but they do not stare at us,
they glance and return to their own mates.
I wonder who lives in the apartment above the cafe.
I wonder where this cobblestone street leads to.
maybe we will explore this city together,
maybe we will have lunch tomorrow, here at this very same
roughly etched cafe, but you have not yet spoken, and
maybe you won’t,
maybe I should start. what should I say?
maybe I should say, have you seen this painting before? was it
ever silk-screened on a T-shirt like your Starry Night one? just
how many prints do you have now? How long do you think it
will take you to finish your masters? do you think you will come
back here to teach? and don’t you think
it feels almost sodden holding this print together?
and don’t you think it feels safely warm being close
enough to touch, even if we don’t?
