Waiting For an Angel

A while ago, I found myself waiting for
you in a city on the other side of the world.
Rain had fallen for weeks, and even nights
were working overtime.

Was it in Dresden? No, rains there had turned white.
Vienna? No, only ghost rains of 1914.
Avignon? No, those rains spoke only French —
with an Italian accent.

Here in Rain City (wherever that may be)
Autumn had unbuttoned the golden dresses of the
poplars; they floated for a week in the clouds above
the other side of the river, like a canopy of incense.

At a window table in a café, I was drawing the terrazza
of an empty restaurant on the other side of the street.
Perhaps angels got hungry, perhaps you would appear.
Every night I was the only client there.

The waitress, round as a drum, and with the
voice of a little girl, often paused to
look at my drawing, and then at the colors.
She never mentioned rain.

Was it an aria from Tosca that she hummed?
(Or was that aria from La Traviata?) Perhaps it was only the
echo of vesper bells from the cathedral on the
other side of the City that opened the windows?

Where ever you were, dear Angel, you were here.
After the rains grew bored and floated on
to bless other cities, hungry guests
appeard in the restaurant, their glasses empty.

The sketch of the terrazza will always be a
mess, never finished. It held nights and rains,
arias of Puccini, and vesper bells. It held me.
And I too, an other me, waiting for an other you.