Back there the city noise
and crying children,
and people buying
	things they didn't need.

Here, in our cafe
just one man reads the paper,
turning pages with a rustle
		like a falling leaf.

In the kitchen
through the rows of beads,
        [do they still have those?]
the sound of lowered voices.

At our table by the window
just your eyes
		only your eyes
telling me about your lifetimes
        in the spaces before 'us'

And your hand gently over mine
warm,
	fingers moving softly,
speaking all our coming days
                         without words.

                           Pam C.