Bistro Poem by David Cooke

Crossing the road for a bar, we dance
through the headlights of cars.
I open the door and the cold ignites,
your face aglow as laughing
we break a silence.

In the yellow light inside
the shiftless gather to decipher
their lives on a screen. Sitting down,
we order hot wine and a grog.
The patronne turns,
too sour to spare us a word.

When our drinks arrive
we sip at warmth from spoons.
Across a glaze of desert light
your face is a flood of smiles.