Cafe Espresso Royale
East Lansing, Michigan
In the flickering light of Andromeda,
whose ankles, wrists,
still bear the slight of servitude,
whose joyous skirts sway
at once to
absolve and bless
the breezy twilight,
I sit here at this sidewalk Michigan cafe.
This is not the river Arno,
slapping murky against feudal walls,
not the Seine,
with capped fishermen
in blotched and dappled sweaters
smoking their cigarettes in wooden boats,
not London’s river
- rain ever pattering its grey forsaken surface.
No.
It is a Grand River.
A muscular torrent of cars --
Fords, Chryslers, Buicks, and
Yea! Oldsmobiles --
as one would expect
looking up
from the local press
stretched between
chipped nails,
and greasy,
battered fingertips.
Such are the rough hands
extended to you --
a greeting all around,
direct, guileless,
without affect,
against the roiling backdrop
of four doors and combustion
at this river’s edge.
These hands,
insensible, perhaps, clumsy if asked
to touch a woman’s ankle, wrist, breast - -
when slipped the invitation
of a perfect sky,
a perfect night,
rise
as eyes alight
on the skirts of Andromeda,
and reach for her
as she steps into the night.