to St. Clair Ripley
At 5:30 pm
of humid August Saturday
I sit in air-conditioned shelter
of Coffee Cuisine
my iced cappuccino resting
on marble-topped table with eloquent base
my chair’s old solid oak arms enfolding me
as I gaze out multi-squares of framed window
to weathered wood-boarded patio
where at dark-green round metal table
draped by white umbrella
with fringed tongues stamped
with Lavazza Caffe Espresso logo
he is calling it off
and her frozen face shows it
At four tables around them
no one seems to notice
They deal with their own life stories
as an Asian mother feeds apple juice
to her toddler
a young couple linger in each other’s smile
a law student sees only his blue textbook
and a middle-aged woman studies sunlight on trees
But it is 5:37
and he is leaning forward now
his tan left hand wiping a tear
from right cheek of her still-stone face
as her eyes burn deep
and his right hand lifts
her clenched right hand
to his mouth
softly kissing each knuckle
and slowly caressing her arm
It is 5:45
and suddenly sun slices through leaves
and finds her tan back
as he lets go of her hand
falls back in his chair
and continues to talk
as she leans over table
resting her head on extended left arm
her eyes still fixed
but fire going out
They don’t seem to match:
He could be young Ray Bolger
his gawky long frame
tentacled over small green chair
sockless feet covered by canvas shoes
red-and-black checkered Bermuda shorts
wrapped around slender thighs
a brown print T-shirt
and tan ball cap shading thick eyeglasses
She could be pretty actress Kathleen Quinlan
clothed in simple sleeveless black summer dress
barely hiding her thighs
her neck-length brown hair pulled up in small bun
crowning her head
Three minutes till six
Her mouth has never moved
and his grows still at last
as she sits up straight and sighs
and he leans forward to kiss her right cheek
rises heavier than August heat
and walks suddenly into shop
looks around with lost eyes
then strides back out
and away from patio
moving north up tree-and-garden-lined walk
along LaGuardia
glancing at her as he passes
and mouthing goodbye
as she holds tightly to her silence
At 6:10 she has stayed long enough
with sun tinting red her wind-rippling hair
her hands wiping any last hint from her eyes
She straps on her red shoulder purse
then left hand lifts white chic shopping bag
as her right grabs tray
with his empty orange juice carton
her half-filled iced coffee
and white yogurt cup
which she carries inside to front counter
where I’m standing for second cappuccino
as she puts on act of smiling back
at lovely grinning young clerk
then she glances at me
and our eyes meet like black holes
Thirteen minutes past six
as she steps quickly out of shop
slipping on sunglasses
and hurries south down sidewalk
toward Bleecker Street
her head turning back twice
to look at patio and empty table
I want to run after her
take hold of tan right arm
and tell her how beautiful she is
How I’m sad at the way
we slay each other in public places
afraid to face the leaving
in those same dark quiet spaces
where we have made love
How I’d like to buy her an iced cappuccino
and tell her the sadness will pass
How I’ll listen through the night
as she scrapes ice off her silence
and pours out scalding pain
How I’ll hold her in darkness
as we listen to soft jazz
and I whisper:
It’s why God made five billion of us
so we can link up and break up
till we get it right
But I don’t
I watch till she’s out of sight
Then I walk alone back toward my small space
on Sullivan Street
running briefly into my neighbor St. Clair
who’s been sipping one at Googie’s
Then I stop at Kim’s croissant shop
where I ask Grace for a third cappuccino
“Are you sure?” she asks
and I say
“Grace, I’m not sure of anything.
I’m just an old boxer
who keeps hitting and hoping.”
A Schubert sonata filters
through cool air
as she smiles
takes my three bucks
and reminds me to get a straw
I smile back
drawl my exaggerated Southern
“Bye”
then walk and climb
to my cluttered studio
where I sit alone
and write this poem
Roger Armbrust
