the café suspended strings of white lights, like stars pointing the way shadowed tables, people talking, whispering, listening, leaning inward for the words waiters in aprons angling between tables welcome aromas red cloth napkins, anxious expecting eyes waiting is the gift finally received
he patiently waits at the café, looking for her and then watches her approach, he thinks… there you are my other glove the shoe that fits the door that welcomes a shoulder waiting the glass half full the moon over waves footsteps together a dance a few whispered words the voice the memories … More AFTER MANY YEARS
Railroad cars rattle to an uncomfortable stop. The heartless metal boxcars release a few late night traveling souls. The aroma of pitch and diesel fuel permeates cool air. Chameleon eyes survey temporary grounds for displaced scarecrows. Torn outer coats, shirts without buttons, uneasy hats all possess that insistent hunger common to all. They walk to … More FALLEN ANGELS
The academia of cafe people. The quips are everything, falling neatly into line without stress. They circle the edge of the serious before journeying to art and the Bauhaus of their apartment. There’s a laugh about abstract dreams and what they could possibly mean and how their favorite pillow captures tears. Black and white photos … More THE OUTSIDE OF IN
There appeared a garment of haze. The confirmation of heat and long days. Café umbrellas wept over their canvas sides, softened by a dispassionate sun. No appreciable change was predicted. The curtained weather hung limply. A silken confection of clouds blossomed into mountains. Bulbous and churning they rose in silent eruption … More SILENT ERUPTION
From the open door I pass daily on the Rue des Lombards lined with lilac bushes, I lean to the sound of a piano; I pause with curious ears. Athletic fingers prompt the song to spill unwrapped to me, circling like a scarf, holding my thoughts, catching me out of breath. The mouth … More RUE des LOMBARDS
Roger Singer 