Sitting at Van Gogh's Cafe in Arles

wrapped in the still warm August night
light from the stars serene and distant
above these old streets while below the glow
from the cafe's gold windows holds
us safe for a while. I shall read
or think or dream, suffused in the scents
of the south - lavender, dust,
the good vin rouge, too late perhaps
for bread and butter, radishes, maybe
goat cheese, olives. Shall I call the garcon
in his long white apron, order un cafe
au lait, un whisky? Spoons rattle, saucers,
glasses clink on the bar, espadrilles shuffle
across cobhlestones, the murmur of voices,
now a laugh, raucous but muffled
passersby slide into the dark toward home.
Folded letters in my bag remind
me of those who wait, the sketch
book with a few blank pages left, the tattered
book of poems. It is enough.

Sara Jameson
August 4, 2006