At least that was how I read it.

It was called “In the Café” by Louise Gluck (pronounced “Glick”, I am told, with two dots above the “u” – that I am unhappily unable to reproduce due to a lack of technical knowledge).

Two Poems Fray regulars received big well deserved checky thingy’s, Bottomfish and Mary Ann.

I am meditating on the poem practicing mono no aware – in wabi sabi fashion. I am currently contemplating the enjambment in the final stanza…

He's himself in these moments, not pieces of the women
he's slept with. He enters their lives as you enter a dream,
without volition, and he lives there as you live in a dream,
however long it lasts. And in the morning, you remember
nothing of the dream at all, nothing at all.

…enjoying a hot cup of coffee and that first cigarette.

I wrote a limerick about the male character in this poem. It took me a really long time, but I worked really hard and practiced; I hope you like it:

Let me get back on point

In Ireland we’d know how to handle this dog

He trifles with lassies, my God, what a hog

That swine, why we’ll give’em a roast’in

(Part of me wants to give’em a toast’in)

We’d run that dog out of this town on a log

Now, I am going to listen to a happy little number by Mel Torme that always makes me smile and try to have a productive day: <link>

The Cliff Notes of love he's devoured
many thin, yellow scripts has he scoured;
one book's all I need,
I'll attentively read
and be sweet when the surface has soured!

Oh how pretty we write over here.

All hail the porkulus by the way!