The Loneliest Poem

I sit on the terrace Of Le Cafe du Coeur The morning sun, bringing subtle rays of hope To this otherwise dull moment I sip mon cafe, dreaming of others And other times Fine linen paper, pen in hand The loneliest poem in all the land The words flow, ink to paper One line at a time They sing of thoughts Emotions long drained, other times It is time for a walk to nowhere Along the banks of a river with no name I leave the cafe table, a cafe with no fame I left the poem, with empty glass, alone There sits this poem, written for no one On a table, in quiet solitude Waiting for the next clientele to arrive The waiter clears the empty glass, no more… She sits, alone, the day begun Her life a mystery to us all As she sees this paper of fine linen With words, so elegantly scrawled The waiter with espresso in hand, smiles As she reads a strangers words They speak to the very desires of her heart They tell her who she is This sunny day turns to rain As her tears wash the table cloth She weeps For finally, she knows Who she desires A poet with no name