THE COFFEE SHOP

I meet with her in a coffee shop.
We are in Europe, the Eastern Block.
She is young, recently divorced and unhappy.
More than anything else, she is intelligent, and beautiful.
She sees me as a father figure, a mentor, a gentleman.
I am no more to her, but maybe I am incorrect in this assumption.
We enjoy our conversation.
The coffee, the sights, the sounds, are all good.
I am happy in this moment.
I don't regret my age, and neither does she.
This was meant to be, as it is.
I do not do anything foolish.
I keep my libido in check.
We meet like this, to discuss Metaphysics.
I wonder if she longs to discuss more.
Will she hold my hand, or gaze into my eyes?
These questions bring me joy.
I vow to keep meeting her.
Mysteries may be revealed.
What is life without desire, imagination, and dreams?
Birth-and-death are merely bookends.
The in-betweens make everything interesting.
Age does not neccessarily deter meaningful connections.
So, I wait.
I am a voyeur, in these European coffee shops.
I watch old men with nicotine-stained fingers,
bring dainty cups to cracked lips.
Those aged lips still have the facility,
to kiss the petals of red roses.
These flowers, tenderly grown,
are hand-picked for pleasure.
The "aesthete" in me, celebrates this ritual.
The "wise old man in me" shouts out:
"Watch for the thorns."
I sip the last of my coffee.
I watch her lithe body, as she walks to the door.
She smiles her gentle smile,
and waves to me as she leaves.
She is as lovely as a painting.
Her blonde hair is bathed in sunlight, like goldenrod.
I am happy for this day.