Caffe Trieste

I saw the man’s picture
on the post while I waited
in line at the Caffe Trieste.
He would be reading
November first, but I
would be two days gone
by then. Pity.
And while I waited
I witnessed what seemed
to me
to be
a supreme feat of pan
handling, not twenty-five
cents for the bus or
the burger but
five dollars for the
grande cappuccino
(it’s come to this?)
but he promised to pay
her back next week
(did he know her?
perhaps by sight)
and she said if not
the week after was OK
(did she know him?
perhaps by plight)
(I’ve seen so much pan
handling this week
past huddled hordes
with ratty
blankets piled and
tarps and shopping
carts)
And I moved several
places up in line
and looked over
there, next to the
girl with the painted
geisha face and
black hair with a
stick in it or two
and there he was
the man in the photo
bristled white eyebrows
and snow-white goatee
cheeks a bit flushed
(some vision of Christmas?)
nursing a stemmed
glass with a last toast
of shining red wine.
There was wisdom on
his face and in his eyes
and I wanted to ask
if it was really him?
I was happy to find him
and then a bit sad
that this would never
be me
enjoying the spoils
of age and some small
notoriety in a stemmed glass.
Perhaps something frothy
for me instead
(if I’ve not been banned
from even coffee)
and if not recognition
then maybe reminiscence
of something worth reading
out loud. Then
to come home to you, Khanoum
with tales of the characters
I’ve seen
to read out loud to you
again.

29 October 2006