We sit together on low whipping cream white plastic chairs,
opposite over a fake fiber board table
covered with cheap and flavorful fair.
The aroma of chili, coconut milk, tea, and greasy noodles fills my mouth and nose
and above us the deafening pattering and smacking
of heavy rain drops landing hard
against the Plexiglas roof  fills my vacant ears.
The night set's in as cold and comfortable
as a fattened fish
at the bottom of an icy lake
and with the sun fully gone now
and the square or street outside empty
the Asian owner opens the garage style glass door,
its metal tracks holding milky white paper orbs full of light above our heads
and he tells us we can smoke a single cigarette in here
safe from the cold and biting rain.
Your eyes watch thousands of minuscule silver streams flow
between the network of cobble stones
like tiny rivers raging mercilessly,
violently,
into the darkened abyss of the storm drain
falling hopelessly over its silent brink.
But my eyes only watch you
with the constant sound of the downpour
sedating my sickly mind
I watch your slender hand
lead up finger tips
to the cold white rolling paper
watch it settle comfortably
between the rosy red of your plump and postured lips
they let back out curved and milky clouds
reminiscent of the sweet swaying of your hips.
I crack a sincere but tired smile,
and put the price and tip under my plate.
We both stand and stretch
and head off slowly, huddled warmly
knowing its been a good night
and finally i feel happy
and i can tell you do too
as a smile spreads slowly across your face
like a tired cat stretching for a long days rest.