In a Restaurant without a Name
Cold rain makes my decision: In here. Statues and seagulls stay outside among acres of cigarette stubs, pearls
from lost midnights. Streetlights are broken tiaras far from celebration. OK, mussels and beer: my personal assistants, my dependable magi.
The blue window is veiled by acrobatic cacti. Only a few souls join me in this pleasant purgatory, a waiting room for oblivion.
I let insignificance hunt me down in the darkening city. We will hook up sooner or later. Until then, the waiter can offer me all I can desire.
L’Actuel: Diminishing
I return for the mussels. But is this the same restaurant as
yesterday’s excursion? Well, the French fries are still called
Belgian fries. Again, I’m asked by the handsome waiter to wear
a bib. Again, I decline. But something has changed, not me.
Can 24 hours rob a place of its magic or am I less of a magician? |