Cafe L’Absinthe

by Philip A. Waterhouse

The automatic voice intoning — You are now
flying over the North Pole — you willing to be
recrossing the polar bear wastes barefoot
if needed to get back in Paris, one brief sojourn
not enough, never want to have to say
-Farewell-again except for be-back-soons
before visits to other European arts and
entertainment and culinary centers
which can never take precedence, though,
over the tasteful dishes, wines and ambience
of L’Absinthe, her poetic sidewalk tables
at only appropriate continental yards away
from the same surface exit/entry of
Paris’ rocket metro subway passengers —

bootless
barefooted