I am sitting at the bar. Sasha has brought me another Dubonnet on ice... we all put ice in our drinks here... the heat stifling everyday... the music from Sam's piano is hard to hear this far away, with the voices from around the cafe... I see a squirrly man being escorted...
Red brocade drapes hang thick and musty with years of smoke and intrigue.
A low rumble of background chatter remains dull but my ears are pricked, alert to the probability of an opening door, a curtain swish, the scrape of a chair on tiles, a much-loved voice.
So many times I joined you at the bar
silently smoking and drinking way too much.
Your famous voice not to be heard
apart from an order or a whisper.
The seasons came and went
and so did the winds from the sea
and the people in that bar.
And we remained in silence ...