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Language

I might as well talk about the rain.
I sat at the cafe, Amici,
Backed into the corner
By the backs of heads,
No more or less judgmental
Than any other surface.
A college-age girl sat
In the opposite corner,
Reading a book
In a black square of leather seats.
There’s nothing like the pink half-light
And a pretty Italian coffee
To bring out the colors in a woman.
I watched through the disused door
By the sidewalk tables,
As the rain-soaked streets slowly dried
In the pale cast of the cloudshine.
I’m a little disappointed
When the sun returns.
There’s something sad
About watching the deep brown
Of the rich anti-stone
Fade into the unembellished greys
Of every day.
So I sat watching the patchwork patterns
Rising to the blacktop,
Like a language,
Spelling out the fallen secrets
Of the dreaming motorists.

Comments

Cheoy Lee said…
I love the way your train of thought begins dismissively, 'I might as well,' then moves into more detailed description before finally expanding into a kind of universal philosophy. For me that kinda enacts one of the poem's messages, the hidden, deeper meaning of colour, language, gloom... and what those things can tell us about ourselves.

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