By Sandra Doolittle
I bet our table
still waits for us
and the window�s up
just enough
to allow the wind
a languid slow dance
with the curtains,
as we order baby
steamer clams and
gourmet turkey melts
with love on the side
and take our time to
sip each other�s drinks,
three floors up,
above busy streets, as
sepia tainted taillights
blur past
and future
into one moment,
as we count our change
and hope we can afford
the chic d�cor
and intimate quarters of
the Black Cat Caf�
just one more time.
RETURN