Waiting for you in the poetry section

So I’m standing there, killing time, and I’m picking
up these books of poetry and reading in between
inspections of my watch and they’re pretty good, the poems,
and I find this one–was about beautiful women–and it
reminded me of you, so I got this idea that, here I’d be
when you came in, reading this poetry, and I’d glance
up when you appeared in the doorway, harsh backlight
so you look, I don’t know, let me find an image…here,
like you’re cradled in clouds and there I’d be,
and when you came up to me I’d start reading this poem
about the beautiful women before you could say anything
and you’d be impressed as hell with my nonchalant charm,
but now it’s getting late and you’re not here yet, though
this poetry is pretty good so I’ll just wait a bit more for you.
-M.Fabrizi

The Waiter

By now, after so many years, I know
Everything there is to know about it.
I serve with grace, foreseeing customer needs,
Like that man over there, chuckling at his friend’s joke:
He hasn’t touched his water all night,
But he’s going to need a refill
In a moment I am behind him with the dripping pitcher
Before he puts his empty glass on the table.

I catch the glance of an older woman, well-practiced in the art
Of marriage, only slightly less so in the art of divorce,
Her lipsticked mouth a cracked canyon of red and
Eyes that stare from dark caverns of skin.
I nod to her and head to the bar, scratching her order
With the pencil I keep behind my ear.

I am next to you, grazing your black sleeve of silk,
Peering into the blond web of hair at the curve of your neck.
I take my pencil from behind my ear,
Put it back, take it out again,
Watching you without staring–a trick I have learned–
While you lift your glass to your smile
And the white wine, the wine, the wine--

The annoyed bartender fills my order,
And I take the glass to the marriage expert,
Replacing with a slender glass of chardonnay
Her half-filled highball.

-M.Fabrizi

Heated Verse

What more do we need but a quiet night
of walking in winter’s early darkness?
What more but soft snow falling through spindly branches
that reach heavenward like bent hands in supplication?
What more but the gentle pressure of your hand in mine,
of our laughter muted by snowflakes that flurry around us?
Nothing but poetry breathed in each other’s ears,
steaming from our mouths: as if we need the heated verse
to warm each other on this frozen night.

-M.Fabrizi