20 March 2019 in Writing

In the reflection of his mirrored sunglasses she could see
the ironed smoothness of her hair—
a gleaming halo of gold—as the late afternoon sun crowned her:

From the café table on the sidewalk, they could patrol the borders,
of the countries of murmured conversations inside the restaurant
of the brilliant green lick of the median dividing the street
of the as-yet-to-conquer City tucked in a thin envelope of fog, beyond.

She raised a glass of pink champagne to her lips,
smiling as the dishes and cutlery in the kitchen
fell forward in audible supplication.

He lowered his head to the clay dish of olives on the table,
counting the slick orbs as if they were coins
and parsing slivers of lemon peel before he thought to ask,
“Where next?”

She looked west, smiled again, and the sun fled under the horizon.