Contradicting as Parisian cafes in Galway Bay,
were the light-lily shadows, from the poster
d'un chat noir hanging sullen on brick,
cast upon your face, lighting like screen starlets of old.
I caught ourselves half-mirrored, faded as
blank portrait paper, nostalgic and waiting
for a time few days past, before the cooling
of untouched coffee. Then I . . .
Felt a strange wondering, if your other self
in the window glass would love me, if my
same-seeming double would know right things
to say, speak charming as trad singers.
I'd clear the room, tables and places to sit,
like a blind pig serving bathtub whiskey brew,
wanted to be ready for the walk-in of guests,
fitfully dusted, waiting on your makeup.
It was nights when you were unreadable
closed and rejecting clumsy overtures,
unlike in sunlight, day calm and under-dressed,
only a bit of the time, though.
Darkly continental, confusions of interest,
I looked to you closely, some kind of
affirmation sought, hair greased and all;
it was little wonder I ended alone.