Sunday Morning at La Baron Rouge

Sunday Morning at La Baron Rouge

Sunday Morning at La Baron Rouge

He is waiting by the door, two wine glasses
placed on the timber cask. Compact.
He doesn’t take a single sip: it is hot.
Tiny droplets mist both glasses.

When she breezes in he touches her face
with joy, her body arches back, leans
into him. With a small camera he snaps
her cheek, her smile, her eyes in close-up.

Now they sip the rough wine. His hand slides
down her side and lightly squeezes her hip.
This will be a slow devouring. You wish them luck
and afterwards, as well as can be expected.

In a café in Lisbon before love had broken camp –
your glasses left wet rings on the wood –
his hand on your hip, like them – snap. These streets –
click – saw resistance in the war, were rebuilt.

The café buzzes. You sit on a plastic chair
alone with your twist of flowers.
They gather their frivolous purchases.
Outside, the hot concrete stretches for hours.