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Hemingway would not refuse
From coffee in the sun,
The patio and you,
You – in a chessboard shirt,
Smiling at him
(All though, you did to me!),
While Claude Monet
Would charm the pigeons
Into foxtrotting
Over his woollen beret,
Right here, on the same terrace,
Surrounded by nude potato
Sunk in the blond sea waves
Of your dreaming-in-the-wind hair.
Then, Hemingway would get his whiskey
And take a better look:
It would distinguish
The luncheon,
Three people,
Oblique pink lines
Of moving wrists and napkins,
The characters are seated
At the square table
As if they were in wild nature,
No waiters (during the pandemic)
That manage
To get at once too charming – grumpy – too embarrassed,
Who would allow us to waste the hours
At the sunny patio – in peace –
The days when we are still,
When we are free,
When we are young,
We haven’t kissed,
But happy, surprisingly.