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?