Cafe on Yonge St.

In a cafe

secluded and warm

time curls slowly

like smoke spirals

and dances in the amber rays

of Tiffany lamps

lit mysteriously low

while sounds dim to a murmur

inviting faces at the window.



Oustide beneath the frosted streetlamps

snowflakes hang lonely on Yonge

scurrying from the fierce white light

while traffic roars and people rush

to get where ever they don't want to go.



In a cafe

in the space before a painting

muffled voices -- chattering dishes

conversations I half hear

are but the aromatics of this place.



Coffee beans freshly ground

newsprint - danishes - laughter

and the afterscents of you...

these stay with me.