Café Nell, 2 P.M.

Myrtle blooms, drummed by pellets of rain

Hitting the pave by the window glass,

Inside whose perch the late lunch sits, of bread,

Steamed mussels, broth an oily cream, salty

As that offshore orage -- brace yourself! --

And a tureen of cut-thin potatoes,

Curled upon themselves like French hairpins,

Like a Renaissance-fresh language,

But sliding almost frictionless, on aioli mayonnaise,

Like the wet tires of a Facel-Vega losing the road

Becoming myth with the death of Camus.

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