Bistro
  
  
 Early morning. Dew gathers on each bentwood chair,
 on round tabletops near the swept sidewalk.
 Insects are beginning to saw minute music.
  
 Their tunes buzz in early urban air,
 not yet drowned by the metal whines of traffic.
 A striped awning over a glass door. Coffee offerings in chalk
  
 lean on slates near the entrance, work their magic,
 entrance us in, as if by chance, and we talk
 after silence not so companionable. Not that we bare
  
 our souls, nothing like that. Maybe we just wake
 up a little more to each other, to who and what we are,
 exhale our nocturnal worrying, refuse miasma and mild panic.
  
 We perk up at the scents of cold milk and rich, dark brew.
 We’ll come back for lunch. Maybe the stew? For now, Salut!
  
  
 Leslie Schultz