I walked with my turquoise stone
in the tiny pocket of my purse
for good luck, the witch said.
I sat at that cafe and you never showed up
I thought perhaps it was the needy poem
of fluff I left in your backpack
when you were looking at that other girl
with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes.
He will wait for you, the palm reader said.
It was a cafe where they played old movies
you said, Scarface is playing,
and recited the lines like poetry.
I am impressed with the oddest sentences
the ones most hate, the ones they can never
grasp with a one time read.
I wrote this for you, he said, but don’t read
it in front of me. I sat on my bed and unfolded it
gently, slowly, prolonging the anticipation
like a perfect orgasm.
I read it about ten times until the words
remained memorized in my mind
for days, weeks, years
even now I could recite them.
Would you like another refill?
I stared at the cute waitress and said,
Non, la facture s.v.p
At that time, there were no phones
to stare into to pretend you were
not stood up by the love of your life.
At that time, I stared at the empty
chair and cried inside for the
injustice of not being loved
enough, for being just another
in his long days of bliss.
I missed his funeral
and every time I walk by that cafe
on Saint-Laurent that turned into a second
hand book store, that turned into a lounge,
that turned into a boutique,
that turned into Second Cup
I recite his poem
in my head like a mantra
and nothing ever changes