Never was I so surprised
to find a room unlocked.

I tried it as an afterthought,
so content I’d been to stare

through the little square
window on the door.

And now, in the pause
of the restaurant’s crowning room—

the tables set for people
who have not yet arrived—

set in cloth and heavy dishes
with glassware to the side—

the panorama windows
full

of sailboat sails
crowding out the sky—

the room, a glance at the clock,
a fervent They will come—

I am an interruption
to a vigil being kept,

a stranger’s well-intentioned,
poorly timed smile

while you’re waiting for the date you know
is never gonna show—and yet,

I feel the room
does not mind me here

for now.
From the stairs, I’m followed

by a constant sigh of Gaeilge,
a language, not dead

but in a nursing home,
who receives her children

without asking
if they’re here because they love her

or because they have to be—
and I realize that this place,

when full, could have been
on Rick Steve’s.

Maybe that’s who’s missing—
at that table, saying something

about the locals coming here
“to enjoy the charming atmosphere

and engage in lively banter.”
And I wonder

how special can a trip to Europe be
if all you do is find a pretty room

and look out the window as you eat.