We stepped inside the smell of aioli and thyme 
and the sound of sax and Spanish guitar  
we sat at the table that became ours   
we were gentle with each other   
the waitresses and the warmth of the place were smiling 
the sangria and the tapas were smiling 
the neighbors 
the big eye window behind the musicians was white  
unblinking with snow and its whiter interruptions 
we heard them between conversations  
broken 
by the waft from the kitchen 
by the fitful bites 
by the startled aching of the hands 
by the gust of the door letting dazed couples in 
do you have a reservation no  
no worries you don't really need one  
just wanted to hear you say your names 
a table emptied there in the corner 
they looked around  
at their table 
at us 
at the musicians  
red and orange against white  
smiled 
walked to their table 
and then we were done 
we knew it from the black disk with the check vertical and neat  
like a poem  
unreadable 
we stood and once more we took everything in 
for the first time we saw the fanoos and the framed immigrant founders  
who never stood a chance to accustom  
to all this  
to winter 
we looked at the neighbors we didn't 
get to know 
we looked at each other 
at everything we so interruptingly witnessed 
and we tipped well the band we really didn’t  
listened to  
they meant something we would have liked to stand for 
something they themselves would have liked to stand for 
and we inhaled once more the aioli and thyme  
and clover  
and just before we could remember  
the name of the waitress 
of the songs 
of the food 
of the smells of others 
if there were flowers on the table 
or not 
and walked out in the un 
intermittent  
cold. 

_____

3rd Wednesday, Spring 2024