ANNY IN A SMALL CAFE.
Posted: March 6th, 2011, 9:49 am
In a small cafe, Anny sits at an
Adjacent unoccupied table as
We sip our cappuccinos and lattes,
Swinging her ghostly legs as children do
Beneath the chair. There is too much chatter
In the air, talk overriding talk, smiles
And fits and starts of loud laughter, waiters
Going back and forth and you alone see
Anny there, a small tied ribbon in her
Long blonde hair, her blue eyes gazing, her lips
Mouthing words, you cannot hear in the din
Around, just her lips moving, but no sound.
You try to lip read, but fail, the passing
Waiters break the spell. So unable to
Communicate she dismounts the chair and
Walks to where you sit with others, each in
Conversation with each, and stands beside
Your chair, curling a ghostly finger through
Her long blonde hair. She talks to you, her words
Soft as butterfly wings, each word moulded
By her small mouth’s movement. You answer with
Nods and shakes of head in case others who
Are present think you converse with yourself,
Not wanting to say you talk with one dead.
Anny wanders around the round table,
Taking in the words they say, looking now
Over shoulders, smiling at you, watching
Their lips move, the endless dull chatter, you
Knowing that to Anny Horowitz, small
Ghostly Anny, after Auschwitz, nothing
Else much in her world and ours can matter.
Adjacent unoccupied table as
We sip our cappuccinos and lattes,
Swinging her ghostly legs as children do
Beneath the chair. There is too much chatter
In the air, talk overriding talk, smiles
And fits and starts of loud laughter, waiters
Going back and forth and you alone see
Anny there, a small tied ribbon in her
Long blonde hair, her blue eyes gazing, her lips
Mouthing words, you cannot hear in the din
Around, just her lips moving, but no sound.
You try to lip read, but fail, the passing
Waiters break the spell. So unable to
Communicate she dismounts the chair and
Walks to where you sit with others, each in
Conversation with each, and stands beside
Your chair, curling a ghostly finger through
Her long blonde hair. She talks to you, her words
Soft as butterfly wings, each word moulded
By her small mouth’s movement. You answer with
Nods and shakes of head in case others who
Are present think you converse with yourself,
Not wanting to say you talk with one dead.
Anny wanders around the round table,
Taking in the words they say, looking now
Over shoulders, smiling at you, watching
Their lips move, the endless dull chatter, you
Knowing that to Anny Horowitz, small
Ghostly Anny, after Auschwitz, nothing
Else much in her world and ours can matter.
