Incident at a Cafe Terrace at Night

A lofty lamp as noble as a duke
bathes the terrace in solemnity,
savoring the tang of the lemon tables,
the pungent mustard cushions of the chairs.
Shoes taste the calmness of the cobblestones
while, wafting through the twilight, women’s perfume
and coffee mingle like the clientele.
A napkin, feeling the ardor of a couple
holding hands, trembles with trepidation,
sensing the tension of the clustered tables
and agitation of the chairs. The stars
distinguish, through the cobalt sky, the green
disquiet of the overhanging leaves
on maple, oak and sycamore, now turning
a sickening yellow, falling to the terrace
and boulevard. A distant steeple, ears
sharp as a cat’s, catches a hint of ruin
as street stones echo with a scramble of shoes
flying from the feverish cafe.
A waiter, dropping a tray of tottery tumblers,
takes to his heels—not from the shattering glass,
but from a far more deafening KABOOM.
The doorframes and the window frames discern
a sadness in their hollow window spaces,
their shards of windowpane strewn round the bistro,
the corpses of the tables and the chairs
as lustrous as the stars set in the cobalt,
the bomber’s bones scattered beneath the lamp
singeing the wings of the indifferent moths.