SUNDAY MORNING AT LA BARON ROUGE Poem by Mary O'Malley

He is waiting by the door, two wine glasses
placed on the timber cask. Compact.
He doesn't take a single sip: it is hot.
Tiny droplets mist both glasses.

When she breezes in he touches her face
with joy, her body arches back, leans
into him. With a small camera he snaps
her cheek, her smile, her eyes in close-up.

Now they sip the rough wine. His hand slides
down her side and lightly squeezes her hip.
This will be a slow devouring. You wish them luck
and afterwards, as well as can be expected.

In a café in Lisbon before love had broken camp -
your glasses left wet rings on the wood -
his hand on your hip, like them - snap. These streets -
click - saw resistance in the war, were rebuilt.

The café buzzes. You sit on a plastic chair
alone with your twist of flowers.
They gather their frivolous purchases.
Outside, the hot concrete stretches for hours.