At a Sidewalk Cafe

An ordinary morning―
awakening to nothing but daylight
prodding through the eggshell-tinted blinds
and the warm quilts to be tossed back
in which sleepers all over the city
groan, burying themselves deeper
into the sheets of oblivion.

Downstairs, the sidewalk café beckons
with the daily choices to be made: trays
of napoleons, parfait glasses filled
with strawberry cream, and the two-sided list
of coffees that patrons pour over
in their passion: the golden warmth of hazelnut,
the richness of Colombian,
the full-bodied Java―
even that everyday flirtation with espresso
and its bittersweet aftertaste,
an attraction so innocuous it seems,
that I wonder what quirks of fate
endear us to our choices in the end―
however invariable the consequences.

- Joanne Monte

At a Sidewalk Cafe

An ordinary morning―
awakening to nothing but daylight
prodding through the eggshell-tinted blinds
and the warm quilts to be tossed back
in which sleepers all over the city
groan, burying themselves deeper
into the sheets of oblivion.

Downstairs, the sidewalk café beckons
with the daily choices to be made: trays
of napoleons, parfait glasses filled
with strawberry cream, and the two-sided list
of coffees that patrons pour over
in their passion: the golden warmth of hazelnut,
the richness of Colombian,
the full-bodied Java―
even that everyday flirtation with espresso
and its bittersweet aftertaste,
an attraction so innocuous it seems,
that I wonder what quirks of fate
endear us to our choices in the end―
however invariable the consequences.

- Joanne Monte

For the Woman in Quandary

You stand on the porch
unaware of the woman you are,
the woman in quandary, the woman
from whom you must step away
and look for through a gray gauntlet of fog
that blinds you
to the direction and the distance,
the earth and it’s volatile mood swings.

It’s almost a certainty
that it will rain wherever you may go;
the rain you dread having to dash into,
dressed as you are in your shiny black boots
and raincoat, toting an umbrella
that you trust to spring up and protect you.

How casually you had chosen it
from among the jungle prints, the arc
of rainbow colors, the royal plaids.
Unlikely that one would better protect you
against the rain darting in at angles,
piercing your bare skin like sharp pine needles,
or the one strong wind you do not expect,
leaving you to wonder just how much exposure
you are risking beneath that fragility.

- by Joanne Monte

For the Woman in Quandary

You stand on the porch
unaware of the woman you are,
the woman in quandary, the woman
from whom you must step away
and look for through a gray gauntlet of fog
that blinds you
to the direction and the distance,
the earth and it’s volatile mood swings.

It’s almost a certainty
that it will rain wherever you may go;
the rain you dread having to dash into,
dressed as you are in your shiny black boots
and raincoat, toting an umbrella
that you trust to spring up and protect you.

How casually you had chosen it
from among the jungle prints, the arc
of rainbow colors, the royal plaids.
Unlikely that one would better protect you
against the rain darting in at angles,
piercing your bare skin like sharp pine needles,
or the one strong wind you do not expect,
leaving you to wonder just how much exposure
you are risking beneath that fragility.

- by Joanne Monte