Dubrovnik seemed
a second home,
and you, in a street

cafe, sat drinking coffee,
with that book on
Schopenhauer open

on the table, a cigarette
smoking in an ashtray
unattended, thinking

of the girl in the hotel
restaurant the night
before, the waitress

who smiled at you as
she served and went
by your table, and your

brother said, I don’t
fancy yours much,
indicating with a nod

of head, another
waitress over by a
nearby table, plump

and spotted, wearing
a scowl instead of a
smile, and all the while,

he eyeing, as young
men do the beauty
that had caught your

eye going by, but all is
fair in love, so men
have said, so picking

up the book on
Schopenhauer, and
further reading,

holding the cigarette
between the fingers
of the hand not

turning pages, you
inhaled with deep
concentration the

smoke and words
spread across the
page, written by a

philosopher of a
foreign tongue
and different age.