November 22,
or something like that.
Lovely cafe in which I do not know the name,
next to another European clock tower
and a bell that strikes upon the hour
tick tick ticking away the seconds that make up
Evy and I drinking lattes and eating cakes in
a foreign place.
Wandering along the slippery cobblestone path,
an indulgence, a tiresome dance
between coffee and beer and long mornings sleeping with
the cold air
coming in through the window.
This place has decorative tiles,
imperfect concrete walls supporting high ceilings
abstract paintings for the contemplation of the consumer
the ponderings of an American who can’t sit still
obsessing over the future,
reading Eckhart Tolle to
cease the dwell.
Is it possible, to be all that I wish to be
to live out the stories I tell
in my mind,
the visions of a life
existing in a raindrop of time.
Tis a compulsion to live
almost exclusively
through memory and anticipation.