blessing over cafes

something intimate

about time in a cafe

when I am quiet inside

when the music, the books 

speak to me

 

she told me in a dream

decades ago

"you can come here

any time you want"

 

it's no mistake

when I am here

plotting my life's course

or resting by the side of its stream

 

we were in the Red Star Cafe

on that street beneath waking

her feet bare on the wood floor

she put an aura around the place

 

a protection, a blessing

for the perpetual possibility of that closeness

that intimacy

with her

"same old used to be"

I

with Arlo Guthrie on one side

Pete Seeger on the other

a cassette I picked up for a buck

at a library book sale in the 90's

some songs became favorites --

"Quite Early Morning", "Presidential Rag"

"Stealin'" -- "Pretty momma don't tell on me..."

 

II

today, at a vintage clothing store at Mahall's lanes

found a folk collection on compact disc

Dave Grisman, Bonnie Raitt, and, bless my heart

Jerry Garcia

 

not looking at the song list too closely

I spin it --

you might guess the rest

 

"Wrap your arms around me

like a circle round the sun..."

who is that singing "Stealin'"?

ah, brash rooster of delight

it's Jerry himself!

what more

what more

what more is there?

 

“Solsbury Hill” at the cafe

Peter Gabriel's disavowed uber-hit

 

funny how we will always be known

for how we once were

in everyone else's eyes but our own

 

for them, that fierce passion of youth

produced the epitome of our soul's reflection

for us, our best is always yet to come

 

my best, an egg in the shell of the moment

yes, I wait anxiously for the hatching

but what more?

 

what more is there

than where you happen 

to find yourself?

to Sir, with love

Cruising down Wooster Road, headed home

10,000 Maniacs best of + rarities, oddities on my CD player

Natalie belting out To Sir With Love

Chord changes that are impossible to follow

The flight pattern of an elusive bird

So beautiful, the voice, the words, the puzzle of tune

Second verse, a guest singer

Oh God, it’s Michael Stipe, frickin perfect!

A big, fat sax break in the middle

The two join each other for the final chorus

I am singing along, screeching, unable to reach

That high, a few tears gather at the corners of my eyes

Aloft on this song

Lights of Lakewood loom ahead

I want to hold this feeling in a frame

Instead, it is slowly escaping

My blissful, broken heart

The Cranberries' "Dreams" comes on at the cafe

 

Dolores at Tower City

walks by the front kiosk

simple sweater, flat shoes

she seems shocked

that someone recognizes her

fearful I'll blow her cover

I praise her music

she thanks me and keeps walking

her end, a shock to us all

to the many who struggle

with self-loathing

thoughts of suicide

she comes in a song every now and then

I still love her music

she still lives

in little surprises

such as this

down into Silence

down into Silence

a ladle into the saucepan

a boy down the well

in search of his dog

you cannot tell

who you are

in the absence

 

vital systems, pumps

and pistons, soaring

into dysfunction

 

but this is different

 

raises rather than slams

listens rather than fixes

your best pitch

and the ditch has risen

to lift the ball

over the heads in the outfield

your last meal

and you eat to fill

your good karmas

your paltry inaction

gorge to gross completion

immense satisfaction

just leave it

your hopelessly tousled hair

your midriff leaking out

from under your shirt

that itch in your calf that keeps returning

you have to bend to scratch

and invariably throw your back out of whack

you know, just leave it

you're in the top 50%

of souls departing middle age for Valhalla

on the train in the night undercover

of faithlessness and tremors

you'll be okay

just remember what made you

the light that shines from within

your top 3 reasons for waking in the morning

the kindness you did once

for a worm washed by the rain

let it sun out on your shoulder

when no one was watching