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Soup

OK say it's a Sunday night, he lets you off
at a cafe because the parking in San Francisco's

North Beach is nearly impossible, the streets
narrow, long sleeves of streets, badly lit,

so you wait at the table while he circles, you
have tremendous patience, after all you get out

so little; the babies, all three still in diapers
at the in-laws, you order for both of you,

you haven't seen him in three weeks, he was away
on business, this time you'll celebrate, you'll

order a carafe of wine, fried calamari, linguini, but it is
the soup that comes out first, you can't remember

if it was white or red or clear, you just remember
how it stayed there in front of your face

like a lake, the steam rising up in your eyes,
there was a canopy of dried leaves on the ceiling,

you felt you were in a forest, you were Echo
thinking about your lost Narcissus, where

could he be, the soup getting cooler, it's
raining, the couple next to you have eaten and left,

you think of Broadway down the block,
no, just because the theaters are near....

how they stink of whiskey, sperm, and cheap perfumes:
the Condor Club with that life size

billboard of a naked Carol Doda, her tits
lit up like Rudolph's nose, no, he wouldn't, just because

he did it before, but you have babies now,
he wouldn't go see Adam and Eve doing it

on stage with that plastic snake, no he wouldn't
sneak in to the nasty theater clogged with businessmen

and sailors where pasty girls in g-strings at Big Al's
lap dance and pretend live action

with each other's sex, no, it's the parking,
he told you he wanted to take you out, remember,

somewhere extra-special, somewhere he could spend
his surplus travel money.  So you work to convince yourself,

you put the spoon down into that pool and you sip,
you sip like the thirsty animal you are, then you start on his,

so when he comes back breathless, sweaty,
tobacco and beer on his breath,

a rash of pink lipstick smeared on his neck,
you believe the story about parking,

how he circled and circled, and oh he is sorry,
he'll make it up to you, he takes your hand in his

and he presses some little charm from a faraway city
in your palm, maybe a pin from St. Louis

with its rainbow arch, or a flashing lighthouse
pendant from Boston,

and then he says how he's missed you, how he really
doesn't see

how he can drive all the way home without first making
love.

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