One wet November night
I was waiting to meet my girlfriend
On the Venice Beach Boardwalk
The buskers had
Put away their drums
To huddle around driftwood fires
While the surf thumped
A bass line in the fog
Beyond the streetlights
Pacing and clapping my arms
To beat the chill from them
I noticed a little bistro
Where a lady in
Faded black high tops
With a body like
Olive Oyle and an accent
Like Hercule Poirot
Made crepes to order
It was amicably warm and
Tatty in there
Card tables, paper plates
And a tinny boom box playing
Incongruous pop songs
I bellyed up, tucked in,
and spent my last twenty dollars
On Crêpes de Poulet and
Cheap Champagne
That was nineteen eighty-five
The girlfriend cheated
I froze her out
We both moved on
The little crepe place is long gone
And yet even now
I see, I hear, I taste
The crisp, browned edges
Of that perfect confection,
Steaming bechamel dripping
From my fork,
Champagne bubbles fizzing into ether
Like the money I should have
Saved for the phone bill
It was just a moment
A tale with no special plot
Except the ageless one
About cold and warm
Hunger and food
Love and loss
And the sly charm of
Basketball sneakers
