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Café Paraíso for Bernado Soares We sit, we men, silent in our cave of mirrors, while through the open door the avenida plays, a home movie projected on a wall. We sip our bicas, black, sweet and hot, like the women in our wettest dreams, determined to forget the rowdy kids, the stumpy fish-wives we leave at home. Somewhere half-remembered is an office, account book, clock and calculator, boss and boss's wife, desk, telephone, and filing cabinet, waiting on our attendance. But that's another life away. Only here is our reality. A cup of coffee, a cigarette, a Constantino on pay day, and dreams of being elsewhere. Ted Slade http://www.poetrykit.org/ %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%