The waiters are under strict orders
to slap any patrons snickering
ironically on the terrace.
Did Van Gogh hang
these lantern lights glowing
with such jocular dementia?
We take the hours slowly,
drink toasts to all dead clocks.
If you say something serious,
we'll all laugh uproariously.
How nice to be free of dark poets!
This night is filled with our chuckles.
Eyes are twinkling while shadows
jump up to click their own heels.
It's too much trouble getting drunk.
It's best to be sober for waltzing
with abashed Bohemian violinists
still trying to play an old tune
on the nature of forgotten remembrances.
These hours of laughing are better
than what Jean Paul Sartre is thinking
as the large maitre d' rejects him
from the premises and conclusions.
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