met me at a cafe down on Central
a little after nine in the evening
when the moon glowed gibbously
through the white lace of clouds.
Painted all evening, she asked
if I’d sit facing the other way
as she was tired of eyes lining her skin
with all the subtle shadowing
of indirect light sources.
She said she felt positively schizophrenic
with twenty-two points of view
and a left over burp from a luncheon
of a tuna-green-chili-cheese melt
that was served sans pickle.
I studied a wooden ladle
and its lack of a soup pot to stir,
while she told me intimate details
that perked up the pigeons,
caused in me a craving for purple carrots.
But, somehow, she spoke in Greek—
at least, she ran her words together
with no spaces between them
and I found myself set adrift
on my return to Ithaca.
Art by Jim Fuess, http://www.jimfuessart.com/
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