Music of the Romany echo
between languid women their bodies
like melted butter. Sipping Fin a' l'eau
laughter rising like the rustling
of dead leaves. And men dark
with flashing smiles their
hair slicked with the faint
scent of Patchouli, from lips
and fingertips hang the sweet
smell of clove cigarettes.
It was their café, a chimera for
the disenchanted. The last haven
of hope for the forgotten ones.
copyright Sherry Obsheatz