Café Americain

On a day made to order by some Hollywood director
Wander through marketplace milling with life’s sweating
extras
Memories: baguettes with black coffee outside Belle Aurore,
Waiting till dark to ponder what went wrong that one day in
May.

Seemed everything was plus perfect, especially face to face.
Could even laugh at dark rumors of war, with a shrug, quick
smile.
Cannon fire, then all fell apart, somehow ended up alone in
this place,
The very end of the world, cradling cheap scotch whiskey
for comfort.

Running as far ahead as possible, yet always searching
behind,
Thought about staying in Marseilles, just in case she was
there,
But damning past ensured no future if caught, didn’t dare,
Paid passage to Algiers, jumped a train, crossed desert to
here.

Spends entire days smoking in bed, reluctant to endure
endless nights,
Behind Gauloise, stoic mask ever-scanning, as roulette wheel
spins,
Watches desperate faces gamble lives, yet they never
remember this:
It’s the house’s game; doesn’t matter who plays, because
nobody wins.

Drinking to forget those good times in Paris, all the stinking
gin joints since,
Forever whispers, sweet perfume, short lifetime of
heartbeats shared as one,
Maybe should’ve asked more questions, but never did, as time
went by,
Now have to wage lost battles with touches of love come
undone.

Club’s lights down, sits in the dark, contemplating by
cigarette’s glow,

Didn’t really didn’t want her to get on that plane, say
goodbye,
But no room for gray in a black and white world, was no
other choice,
Drops cold ash on scarred table, pours from the bottle, lets
out one more sigh.