by Angela C. Orlando
We sit in the cafe at lunch hour, my friend and I,
Drinking coffee while waiting for our sandwiches to arrive.
The cafe is crowded,
I look up, at a sea of faces,
The haggard looking waitress bobs around,
Like a buoy tossed about on the crest of each wave.
I imagine a cacophony of sound,
The clatter of plates,
The chatter of people,
The shrill cries of a baby,
As her mother frantically tries to calm her, at the table beside
I speak to my friend,
With hands raised, as if ready to perform,
And they do,
In a graceful dance -- A ballet of the hands.
My left hand soars across my body, in a flaming leap of passion.
My right hand thrusts forward, and gently returns,
The reluctant lady, as she tries to flee but is drawn back by her
My two hands come together to meet at last, with a lingering
touch, in a lover's embrace,
Then they fly away and flutter downward,
The dance is complete -- the curtain is lowered.
My friend smiles and begins her own poetic response,
As the waitress rushes forward and drops our plates on the table,
She escapes, on the ebb of the tide,
Without giving us a single glance.
We finish our food in silence,
Yet speak a thousand words,
Then we pay for our meal and leave the cafe
Our hands still brimming with things to say.
Revised August 2011