Roma Café, Berkeley
Sipping my café cortado
I notice a silver-haired man.
He wears jeans and a Patagonia fleece
and studies his New York Times
as if finding the secrets to life
and I study him, seeking the same:
I find sparkling eyes, strong hands,
and lips needing further exploration.
He's probably a seasoned professor,
a man I would have followed anywhere —
guided by gauchos, we hiked the Andes
to sip yerba mate under the stars while he
held me and whispered ¡Te adoro!
We settled in Santiago, taught
philosophy by day and tangoed by night.
Then we came to Berkeley
and raised our son and daughter:
Mario, an ecologist, returned to Patagonia,
while Ariana became a pediatrician.
And we…
oh no,
he . . . rises, folds his secrets,
tucks them under his arm
and leaves me behind
sipping my café cortado.
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Take Me
Police handcuff a homeless man
outside Bed Bath and Beyond.
Inside the store, a cashier tells me,
"He bawled, Where's the Beyond?
Take me to the Beyond. Take me.
We didn't know what to do."
On leaving, I see him released
and sent on his way.
I tell a friend this story and
she remembers fifty years ago
when she was a young mother
running a red light and
getting pulled over.
Asked for her driver's license,
she said, No! Take me.
and held her wrists for handcuffs,
Take me to jail.
She looked at her howling toddlers:
Take them. Take me to a cell
with a bed and a pillow.
Mouth open, the policeman stared,
then managed to mumble,
Go get some sleep.
He turned and left.
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