The Cafe

after Andrew Marvell

Primeval nature teemed with newts and slugs.
Man said, "Let cities be. I'm sick of bugs."

The hippies all left Harvard Square
long years ago. I don't know where
they moved—Vermont or western Mass.—
in search of peace and greener grass.
In vain! They cannot find repose
and wear a minimum of clothes
where greenheads gorge, blackflies bite,
and starved mosquitoes swarm at night.

Although I miss patchouli oil
I know my place—far from the soil.
Let me spend a quiet day
at a small sidewalk cafe.
Not for me the skinheads' haunts,
the pricey yuppie restaurants,
or preppy bars. Just solid food,
good coffee, and some solitude.

A private place to sip and think:
what wondrous choice of things to drink!
Grenadine appeals to me,
though fatal to Persephone;
and—liquid marzipan—orzata;
Orangina; sparkling water.
At last I order lemonade
and find a table in the shade.

Planning adds to urban bliss;
I know the sun's ephemeris.
At three I'll stretch bare legs to meet
the light just striking Boylston Street,
confident no stinging bees,
ticks with lethal Lyme disease,
savage ants, or noisome lice
will spoil my red-brick Paradise.

© Peter Desmond