ON THE ROAD TO EINDHOVEN:
The maitre d’ takes my hand in both of his &, smiling, shakes.
The waiter does one more balletic flourish across the floor for
me as I swing my bag onto a shoulder. He twinkles, beaming,
pristine, crisp in black & white, manicured & perfectly sculpted
hair, dances away between the tables, waving.
“Thank you for staying. Please come again”
Big blacked-out car waiting at the curb to take you away, we shake
& make that rarest of hugs, the best one of all, neither of us
capable of finding words enough to express our feelings.