The Coffee-House

O had you not dreamed as I dreamt
on the satin afterthought
of at some times roses in a crystal vase
or at others light on a freshly shampooed wave,
we might meet on the practical plane
where we sit in the coffee-houses
and talk the endless nothingnesses
that are the oil of real life.
The smell of freshly ground ordinariness
with a touch of milk
to mitigate any bitter possibilities
places us in a moment when,
in a parenthetic bubble where,
this thing called ‘you and I’
lay at each other’s fingertips across the table
treatises on the world’s most meaningful art:
the art of being,
the art of forgiving,
the art of seeking to know,
the art of dreaming without limitation,
the art of placing each other eye to eye on the valued pillar of acceptance.
But sadly for these opportunities,
we did dream in our separate worlds
and our paths wandered
divergent as the unravelling skein of fates.
For a moment I indulge in the mourning
of the loss of what I never had,
of the reflection in a passing window
of one who could have been,
perhaps you,
of the shadow of the intangible truth
that you are not here.
And if this light could be frozen
where colours whisper the sapphire image of the unreal,
o let me dream tonight the captor’s dream.
And if I sacrifice the real world for the random,
let the daybreak place upon my path before me
the thousand coffee-houses of chance and prospect.

(2008)