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Agent Aslan
I fell in love today all over again,
with the girl next to me at Cafe Trieste’.
Thick red eye lashes and a matching mane flowin’,
my pulse has yet to slow and rest.
The only words we exchanged were regretting,
her telling of the code for the wireless connection.
I’m convinced of in now that while we were sitting,
our feelings had their own multidimensional convection.
I know I’ll never see her again,
it’s really for everyone’s best.
If she were the last love of my life,
what would happen with all the rest?
They come and go on a daily basis,
always with a yearning body and head.
Hold the coffee and glancing races,
give me a bottle of red wine instead.
In an unambitious café
on one of the smaller avenues,
she took her evening meals. She
kept the objects, events,
and duties of her life orderly.
Was therefore surprised by love;
by a man’s kindness, crooked smile,
large soft hands. This pleasant
passion didn’t make life less
immensely mysterious to her.
Soon love concluded anyway.
He was a restless, ill-focused
fellow. Goodbye to him.
The café didn’t change, or
the avenue. Love like weather
had passed through. She grew
In a little Hungarian cafe
Men and women are drinking
Yellow wine in tall goblets.
Through the milky haze of the smoke,
The fiddler, under-sized, blond,
Leans to his violin
As to the breast of a woman.
Red hair kindles to fire
On the black of his coat-sleeve,
Where his white thin hand
Trembles and dives,
Like a sliver of moonlight,
When wind has broken the water.
In the Cafe where I sit
The four old men who look like bards
Are playing at a game of cards ;
And they are enjoying it.
They are so eager at their play,
They shout together joyously,
They laugh with all their voices, they
Are like the little boys you see
Playing in your nursery.
But they'd be angry, they would rave
And swear and take it quite amiss,
If you walked across and gave
Each a penny and a kiss.