Sunday Afternoon at the Vinoy
I am God,
said she.
And that explained the
warm blanket of fog she wore,
and the rainbow over her head.
Still, one needs to be careful with strangers,
and it was with some trepidation,
that I asked her to join me
at the wicker table on the verandah,
where I had, until that moment,
been awaiting my shrimp al ajillo.
Soon the fog fell deeply around us,
resting on adjacent tables,
dozing on the laps of the other guests,
growing ever higher and higher.
By now even the rainbow was hard to see.
I’ve never seen you here before,
I managed, squinting now
for the waiter, and wiping my glasses
with the corner of the tablecloth.
I don’t get out much, she said,
but I’ve heard about the shrimp.
When she walked away later,
allowing the sun to recover itself,
and fall back down upon the verandah,
the maitre d’ apologized to the guests
for the disturbance, adding that lunch
would be on the house,
while looking straight at me,
and shooting fire from his eyes.
.
