My Cafe

I have opened a cafe on the pack ice,

And though patrons are few,

It seems well-suited to me

Because everything I touch begins to steam.

I have observed the polar bears--

They fear nothing

And eat anything.

Besides that, they are as white as brides,

Though when there is blood,

It is never their own.

I want to kiss their claws.

I think, if I could do that,

I would soon write something meaningful.

I have started a cafe on the pack ice,

But immediately after opening,

I slept for seven days--

One for every letter of your name.

I think,

If only some woman would come way the hell up here,

And having come,

If only she would

Act

Speak

Think

And

Be

Exactly like you,

Then I might be able to get something to burn;

I might be able to get her to stay,

Calling her always by the wrong name,

And treasuring her

Like daylight.

I have opened a cafe on the pack ice,

And am having trouble staying awake.

Oh, how I want to dream

Of anything besides polar bears.

They read my journal,

And laughed so much, they soon fell over on their sides,

Great paws waving helplessly in the air.

I went to them,

On that one occasion only.

They were like big deadly pillows,

And so I lay my head on one of them, never expecting to really get away with it--

I kissed its claws,

And called it by your name.

I had never felt so alone,

But just as it's been with every hopeful love-seeking nut job who ever set out from home,

I knew it was back where I started from,

And that I was already bones.

________

photo: Evelyn Nesbit