by Steve King
© 2011
All rights reserved
sun lay across the plaza gold
shadows gathered in corners
from where we watched
a thousand footfalls
raise hot dust
while we waited
not speaking
not to speed the moment on
there came music
from some other place
murmur of a song
new that summer
now old and only passing fond
and flowers at the far café
I could not quite see colors
saw it as a spray
the idea of flowers really
it might have been a picture
or a bright tin sign
or anything at all
or it might have been flowers
we heard the train from far
took time with the drinks
as if time wouldn’t matter
couldn’t matter any more
it would make you sleep you said
I knew and nodded
sipping slow
you cursed but soft
a bright wine drop
upon white linen dress
that moment I was grateful
you would carry this along at least
like a charm
you would peer into this blot
and see what was this day
you would hold with you
a note of the plaza and the song
even the dust the flowers
or the bright tin sign
and the shadow where we waited
where you spilled our wine
