On the Left Bank, Watching Boats Pass By
by Earl Coleman

I slip our folded l’addition and corresponding
franc notes in between the heavy certainty
of earthenware and sun-washed zinc table-top.

What could be more rooted in existence than money, parting drinks,
people-watching, river traffic, food? A cosmopolitan aprés-midi,
n’est-ce pas, ma chere?, beginning to turn chill, our visit coming

to a close. I’m not surprised you have so few words you can say,
or was there something you implied I missed? There seem to be
no vital ones that you will share with me.

A randomly appealing chemistry, a willingness to share a bed
don’t lead of a necessity to sharing anything as intimate as words
that freight themselves with harsh goodbye.

I’m predisposed to heedlessness of danger, body, but at my age don’t suppose
that I’ll be able to return. What we know about the Law of Entropy is: it denies
a resurrection in the same form, same consistency, leaving us,

alas, this perishable knife, my glass of fine merlot, now dregs, the memory
only of this fading summer afternoon that touched us briefly and then
metamorphosed into daytime-limbo, just before la nuit.

Come, come, love, look at me. I could have sworn
our weltanschauung was the same. Unless
the sun is blinding me, I’ve made you cry.