The only city

and what could be.

Mismatched chairs, 
dark wood scuffed.
Dirty sidewalk,
chewing gummed.

Tiny table, for two.
Starched, white cotton tablecloth.
Sparkling cut glass flutes, eager to be filled.
Old, fine dining cutlery. 

Aprons and waistcoats,
napkins folded in three.
Romance on the streets,
of this, the only city. 

Let them stare.
We are there.
Charger. Champagne. Chandelier,
eruptions of wax.

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