Haloed Moon

‘La Dolce Vita’, chalked on a black quadrat hanging above
a couple smitten by them; seeing the glasses of wine.
I look up, from my finished gnocchi, its taste still
taunting my taste buds. Still waters. I look at her,
graceful, grateful.

She catches my eye, and more. She’s an attentive dove: 
the guests who made no reservations, the couple
behind her on their first date – under the quadrat, 
the waiter’s dogged English, the sauce on my bowl. 
I am at peace under her gaze.

I look around. The crimson tablecloth, her face, her tender glove 
waiters gliding in and out with trays laden with cheese,
and hopes. The glass in my hand almost empty of love,
I swirl it, put it to my lips, drain the last ounce 
and gently drink my fears down.

I have been waiting for this. I seek in vain any Friday I outlove. 
We talk about so much, and for the first time in a while
I do not feel the time, ticking incessantly
nor the fidgets that attack me on such occasions. 
I smile. Wish heaven to be as good.

I laugh, I don’t know why. I just spurt water out in a messy curve. 
Surprised, she laughs, and I laugh on, it feels good to be alive.
French. She asks for the bill, s’il vous plait – all I comprehend. 
He brings it, ceremoniously, perhaps to underline the service 
I pocket their card for my journal as

does she. Similar. We depart, bellies full, warm hearts and I starve 
no more. She runs ahead, left foot meets right high in the air and 
I follow suit – graceless but enthusiastic. Under the haloed moon 
we walk, nonchalant to the screams of young souls behind us,
who lose comfort where we find it.

In the moment, detrimental plastics, arriving mother and I want to love
freely, widely, deeply. I float in euphoria, my mind savours, 
my heart bulges, rips tensions that have rendered me unalive. 
It seems that all it takes to make the moon so beautiful
is a circle of clouds on a cold winter’s night.