Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Wednesday Cafe (Poem 303)

The voices of Saturday afternoon linger 
in the walls, reverberating off a red concrete floor, 
cleverly poured in a terra-cotta tile grid, and 
scored with fine lines of charcoal-gray, faux grout.
The café tables, pushed and shoved on Saturday 
into unfamiliar groupings, are back 
in their customary spots, each with 
two or four unburdened chairs at rest below. 
Wednesday's voices--tender, serious, 
subdued--hang easy on the air.
"This space is not mine," they seem to 
say, "but I will share it with you."  
Nearby, a petite elderly couple share 
a table for two. (He: espresso and 
an owlish hooked nose; she: cappuccino
with a straw, her sneakered toes 
barely touching the floor.) Both
husband and wife have attained 
an equal degree of baldness. They take turns 
reading aloud from a shiny British magazine, 
exclaiming--just a tad too loudly--over 
familiar names and places, drawing chuckles 
and indulgent smiles from the scant 
handful of students, shoppers, and 
writers scattered about the room.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six