Elegance carnations, frilly, small

by cappuccino cup, near empty now

The spicy blooms a dark dark red

green tissue wrapped around

Tied up faux-rustic, stiff strands of straw

on caffè's grey-veined marble tabletop

A simple slender bunch of flowers

Green and red, bought that day near Christmas Day

A solitary Christmas, that's okay with me

Sun setting, not yet but swift and soon

Beyond the street-side window there

A voice calls out as I get up to leave

Excuse me, sorry to bother you . . .

The man begins, not sounding sorry

Turns out he really needs to know the name

of fascinating dark red blooms

now gripped in my right hand

And also could he have a closer look

Telling him they are carnations

I proffer them with proper distance

My right arm outstretched extra long

above his empty extra chair, his marble table

Two metres, probably, I think? so

ought to be okay — though, in caffès

where sundry liquids are imbibed

at tables, we're not masked . . .

since I'm leaving now

mine's ready-gripped in my left hand

blackly dangling down

He comments on the darkness of these blooms

A richer red, he says, than he has ever seen

Carnations mostly flashier, more orange in the red

And I agree, say I chose these because they were so dark

I tell him where they came from, just a block away

say one more dark red bunch remained, an hour back

But looks like he's not keen to seek them out

for he leans back, talks on . . .

Seems now he may have overheard

what I'd said earlier, to owner's eldest son

about the caffé's valiant role in these hard days

a sense of place, a place to go

a place to know —

my goofy, garbled gratitude

reached stranger's ears, I think

spurred him to speak,

as much as dark red flowers did, perhaps

for now he echoes all those things I said

about the need for places like this just to be

a respite, an escape

a frame for what remains of life

And since it echoes what I said

it's easy to agree again

as I stand by his table

blooms in hand, gloved, coat on

looking sideways toward the glassy door

The stranger, somehow, mentions now

that he's divorced, he's fine with it

that he's quite free, save for entrapment

of ever-shifting virus protocols

It dawns on me that I'm not really sure

how conversation wound up here

what twists or turns? but once again

easy to agree— indeed, it's true

rules' constant shifting

like black mask, limp in gloved left hand

Both mean that one is never free

An errant evening sunray strikes his earring, lights it up

as I nod, turn to go, say nice to meet you —

to my surprise he firmly disagrees

says no! we haven't met,

you do not know my name

My name is Brent!

I say that surely talking is a meeting

still, give my name as well, compliant

he says it's very good, a pleasure to meet me

that no doubt we'll meet again, meet here

reaches out to shake my flowerholding hand

but when I hesitate, sends out surprising upthrust elbow

which I then duly angle-bump,

first time for me, that cool pandemic move

I head off on my flower-bearing way

***

Part 2 — conclusion of "Flesh" — follows.