By Paul Rabinowitz.
at the end of a cobblestoned street
under a pale moon waning
ocean air swirls under frayed awnings
into a dimly lit cafe
hum of a thousand churning voices
rumble under ceiling fans
as late night lovers plan their next move
It’s getting late, I should get home
he says turning from her dark eyes
presses a wine glass to parting lips
as his sunburnt cheeks glow
wrapping her hands ‘round a candle jar
she swallows his words
and says
I wrote a poem about us
then loosens her grip from the burning glass
removes a crumpled toys-r-us receipt used as bookmark
presses her palms on the fine white paper
recites the first line
It’s getting late, I should get home
and closes her eyes
feels the burning sand underfoot
walks to the water’s edge
a seagull hovers above them
balancing on a shaft of turbulent air
its long screech sounding alarms
as a violent wave crashes before them
like Ares throwing his spear into open waters
the gull bursts through a sliver of horizon
she wraps her arms tightly ‘round his warm body
pecks at his sunburnt cheek
the ending still needs work
returns the found receipt to him
wraps her tassel shawl ‘round bare shoulders
thickening clouds block the waning moon
there’s still time to tuck them in
and like a sailor peering through spyglass
she looks out at the open window
dark sea churns spreading foam over fine porous sand
a waitress turns a metal pole folding layers of frayed awnings
she rises gathering pieces of the unfinished poem
a single tassel dangles over the burning flame
as a noisy seagull balances in the wind
into his open arms
