A villanelle by Dianne Moritz

 

Sitting here in this funky Wild Rose Cafe,
where there’s twenty-seven words for cool,
women preen and dream, while men look down,
masking boredom on their handsome faces.
It’s all too obvious you’d have to laugh
were needs for connection not so great.

 

When you suggested we go out, I said, “Great!
Let’s check out the scene at the Wild Rose Cafe.
The mood there is always good for some laughs.”
You agreed, saying, “Yeah, okay, that’s cool.”
We painted and powered our sun-tanned faces,
jumped in the Beemer, and headed down.

 

Now we find an empty table, sit right down,
Eyes glazing the hungry crowd, feigning great
nonchalance on our perfectly, pretty faces.
You daintily sip a cup of steaming cafe
au lait, lick pouty lips, casually cool,
As I watch the rowdy room and laugh.

 

Meanwhile, as we’re chatting, laughing,
some guy saunters over and sits down.
“Hey, there,”  he says. (Yep, too cool
for school).  “This place is the greatest.
What’s your take on the Wild Rose Cafe?
I can’t get enough of the beautiful faces.”

 

Ready to retort, I  appraise him face-to-face.
“The guitar player’s sure cute!” I say, laughing.
Then reach out for my smooth mocha cafe
Latte…sending the hot liquid spilling down
my snug, black dress.  “Shoot, ain’t that great?
Not too swift and, definitely, none too cool.”

 

The gorgeous guy stands, “Speaking of cool….
How ‘bout a dance to heat things up?”  Face
aglow, he swings me away, shouting, ”Great!
You’re a helluva dancer!” I smile, giggle, laugh,
As we jive, jazz, jump, and boogie down,
Long past midnight, at the Wild Rose Cafe.

 

Here’s my advice: when detecting cool airs, just laugh.
Behind those vague faces, we’re searchers, all, down-
to-earth, half crazy, looking for love in some fine, fun cafe.

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