The Shadow of Le Cafe de Flore

Early April Evening on Myrtle Avenue The neighborhood afoot on the sidewalk Car traffic dying down Not quiet, just quieter

I sit in a collapsible chair A cappuccino on a wooden picnic table My world passing In the peace of the evening. A terrace of my own making.

I eat grapes and sip coffee Happy dreaming of Paris Et le Cafe de Flore.

Sitting outside en printemps On a rare sunny day Grim Parisiennes warmed by a setting sun Faces dreaming of the wind from Africa. Men hurrying to ‘evening designations’ With their maitresses.

Well-dressed and heeled women Sit on the terrace Looking at their watches Time never stands still on the Boulevard St. Germain

I remember women Karine Candida Bernadette Mira Gabby Julie Bridget Et toutes les femmes Polaroids in my memories Forever in love with the impossibility Of me with them

And I especially loved the Welsh Rarebit With a glass of red Sitting on the terrace Watching the Sixth Arrondisement Head to the cinemas, les Deux-Magots, and Le Drugstore.

Friends sit with you More wine The Welsh Rarebit warming your core. Never thinking of the home Left across the Atlantic. Your mother’s Welsh Rarebit Not like that served by the Cafe le Flore But I remembered hers and her,

The first woman in my life. Some things are never forgotten Not the Cafe le Flore Paris nor the last time I was there. Mid-morning

St. Padraic’s Day A green tie a tweed suit. Julie Candida, Christine Gabby And their Beaus.

My plane leaving in four hours Stories Not hiding a thing No secrets laughter and then au revoir Paris amour le Cafe le Flore Toujours et forever

Below photo Olivier Brial RIP et moi 1985.