Tuesdays Are Free At the Museum

My hands are busy with today, but my thoughts hang back in the humid air of a deceptive yesterday; to dinner and the jungle heat congealed under umbrellas, stained with the residue of city traffic, too loud and too close for significant atmosphere to stand any chance in factoring urban style. Paris, it wasn't, but the setting suggested the delusional coolness of a sidewalk café. The invisible sultriness that had seduced the day forced rivulets of sweat from even the chic-est brows tucked beneath the shaded shadow of the backdropped skyscraper. Heat had the upper hand, and with attitude, flipped off the advancing breeze from the lake; defeated, it proffered nothing more than the stale breath of a probing lover. The haricots verts were passable, the whitefish with pesto-laced orzo - commendable. The coffee? Ah, the coffee was an invisible accompaniment to a parody of authentic New York cheesecake. It was a one sip, one bite affair, exchanged for an iceless margarita in deference to the science of cooling the body with room temperature libations. Jose winked from the glass as I settled back in my chair and began to paint a self portrait for other people's minds. It's what a poet does on the avenue in Chicago, in the heat, in July; eat, drink and imagine you're seen.