love should not be found at 45, not in the spreading of butter

Romantic love should not be found at 45. Yet, as I pull down

the corner of The Observer and glance across the table,

there he is slurping his coffee, reading about NASCAR.

Love should be found at 20 in a Parisian cafe with a man

possessing a full head of hair and eyes dark like Tamarack

bark in the winter; reciting poetry while nibbling a croissant.

I peek again, as he unsticks his elbow from the plastic

table covering, picks up his toast. I quickly pull up

the morning edition; hide my face but fail to cover

the love in his graying strands, the coffee beads on his

upper lip, and the simple swirls he makes spreading

the butter; doing the impossible all over again.

Carol Parris Krauss