By Martin Bemberg
There had been no rain that at first fell frozen when it did,
At least this Fall, but wet from Bar I fell in home and sleep
With red and green and splash and stream
And stone of Amelie because sometimes you speak French,
And tried to reconcile what words from Spain I’ve known –
A Father’s garden gnome, a shrine for Mom who died a death below –
And I awoke like stone for things I do not not remember,
But for things whose pleasure, or something similar, is still sleeping,
Snoring somewhere warmer than I’ll ever be with the door locked.
It wasn’t long before I locked my own behind to wish late March
From mid-November, but felt chilled greeting that is hearty slap
And wink and cackle from Time Of Year It Actually Is,
And as it warmed I fell up Favorite Hill towards Restaurant
Where once Owner found which Turkish buttons you can let be pushed,
Charming chaste your pants as I said,
“I’ll have soup.”
And falling down Favorite Hill as sun and warm became,
I noticed just in time how overdressed I was and always am
And that perhaps late March could make a comeback this year,
And so my coat was left to own devices.
And it was warmest when I saw your face on my veranda,
But now how Sun has gone with you and I no longer see it nor Sun’s,
But am inside where it is warmer, where the same furniture in different places
And the same blue walls but brighter blue behind the same chess set,
A gift from Costa Rica,
Are this day, somehow, vaguely Ottoman.
There is a fork on the counter, which I use to open Beer.
It is colder than ever before, than ever before this Fall,
Which I do not notice as I light my smoke and take my sip,
Nor as I sit recalling Winston where you are costs just four Lira.
And it is chilling when at last I notice I have left coat
Somewhere, and yet another sip
And another smoke
As I sit to remember that it will not be this way in Istanbul in July
nor will I.