Quarter Past Midnight at le cafe de nuit
inspired by Vincent van Gogh’s le cafe de nuit
Vincent’s tortured paint has drawn me
To a place I would never go,
Now that saintly solitude has become my solution.
But then of the six people in the cafe
Only a man and a woman back in the left corner
Sit together,
Sharing a bottle
& whispers, I guess.
Later, after they leave their empty glasses,
Will they stay together or shuffle down
The solemn streets alone?
A man slumps at the table nearest the couple,
No glass or bottle on his table.
A bottle, half a drink, & three empty glasses stand
On the table near the slumping man; a carafe, an empty
Bottle & two half-empty glasses on the next table
As I travel towards myself marking the abandoned tables.
A pool table casts an unlikely shadow over too much floor,
& a man has risen from his chair, stands by the pool table
Gazing at me through the troubled paint.
Shying away from his eye,
I mark behind him another table holds a half-full bottle
& a full glass, probably his bottle & glass.
The last two figures also slump, also without drinks. Sitting
Catty-cornered they seem to face each other, having
A less than intimate conversation. But then they, as well
As the first slumper, are perhaps sleeping, likely homeless men &
these tables their only warm bed.
I wonder if Vincent knew.
The Night Cafe—a place I could not go:
Those red walls & green ceiling & friendly lamps
Hanging down & the booze bottles
Standing brazen on a cabinet
Against the back wall; a curtained
Doorway suggests someone
Lives back there behind the cafe,
Unless, of course, I’m turned around
& that is the entrance.
In any case I would never go there (well, maybe
If you invited me, for a drink and some
intimate conversation)
Because—at this writing—
I know I have more in common with artists
Than I do with the saints.
