Café Manuela

Café Manuela

Its been four years since

I saw the adult man shriek and weep

over the freshly dead body

of a small dog in the street,

now stained with a trickle of blood.

Four years later I return

to Café Manuela

under different circumstances.

The waiter comes over and I order my usual:

freshly squeezed please

orange, carrot, ginger

naranja, zanahoria, jengimbre

which comes with a straw

its two usual ice cubes

and I remember.

The waiter brings me a plate of mixed nuts,

crunchy corn and bits of chocolate

and I remember

I only used to eat the corn

so I do that again

despite my temptation for peanuts.

To call the feeling in my chest nostalgia

would be a cheapening

but perhaps accurate description

for the shear delight I took

in my Proustian moment.

I am grateful to the world that not much

has changed at Café Manuela

other than the wait staff.

The chairs are the same,

the white marble tables have remained

(I sit in my usual spot)

the meta paintings of people playing cards

and drinking at Café Manuela still hang

in crammed spaces on the walls.

I think of everyone I have been with

here four summers ago,

as I eat the peanuts,

one by one.