Read Poem: AVENUE HOCHE, by Peter Bové

The coffee is kicking in-what a rush
A very old lady crosses Avenue Hoche
The noble looking Italian one
Sips her Badoit avec citron

I am… You are… They are
A simple moment in a day of sun
Composed in part by
A series of low hissing sounds

A lean smart Parisian laughs at my first French joke
Actually, an American joke told in French
Either way, we laugh, when
My heart leaps suddenly at the smile of
A young Basque vision of beauty

The waiter has seen it a thousand times
“I will get the check Monsieur”
He takes my empty cup
Then melts into the café

I sit still and watch her olive skin expand
With each of her tiny enormous breaths
Velvet by sight… Translucent in the sun…
Her young carefree boyfriend notices my gaze

He stares back at me blankly
I wonder of the moment he will realize what they were
He will be, thirty-three, perhaps
He will sit at this very table, in this very café

He will remember her smile, her soft skin
The way she walked, talked and touched him
He will mourn the memory itself
This fleeting remembrance of his gift from God

As the voitures of the future float quietly by, he will think of me
The way I looked into their world
My gaze into the future that, he now holds as his life
He will know the meaning of my face

Their moment… My dream

A magnificent discovery will overcome him
As he sips my coffee
Puffing my cigar he will think of me, as me, as himself
Yet of her

Time will melt into place
His life will become my face
For the waiter who interrupts his thoughts
On this Saturday afternoon on Avenue Hoche