There's always a narrow passage In a big city that Leads to a quiet caf' Unhurried, quiet, half lit, In the controlled ambience Of trumpet music Behind the clatter of plates and The low hubbub of talk.
If you are lucky A pretty girl could walk in Balancing a tray of coffee and cake Then throw off her sandals And sink into the sofa next to you. She might prefer that you watch Her silver painted toenails, Or her legs tucked under Somewhat unobtrusively as She leafs through a fashion magazine, Or fiddles with her silver ketai, Or stretches her body, Or sighs, Or sips her coffee, Or nibbles at the cake, Or gets up, walks to the staircase and Then returns to relax once again In an undefined proximity.
Sipping emotions Through a corridor You enter a quiet haven Only to recall memory's Half-forgotten passages, Those throbbing promises, Empty retreats, Apocalyptic finalities Almost forgetting the throbbing warmth Collapsing inward as a silver ketai , The almost tactile passion Of a public space, The taut skin Upon the staircase and the Silver toenails curving in; Then you suddenly return to the Placating smoothness of sipping At the edge of the warm cup.
Behind the clatter and the hubbub The trumpet accelerates A staccato passage Punctuated by the squeak of the sofa, The warm roundness of a sip, The languorous stretching of the body, The palpable ardor of retreat, The gentle ruffle of pages, The chafing of the jacket against the table, A furtive look, A pleasurable sigh, A redolent glossing of lips As your mind separates the Private and public taxonomy Discreetly moving up along The subterranean cleft Feeling an intimate chemistry Of some unexplored promise.
A narrow passage Briefly leads you Into a seductive compromise Where beguiling artifice Plays tellingly upon life and Unarticulated proposals Lead you cunningly Into a quiet corner.
