Le Caprice Bar, Mykonos

Laury A. Egan

Through the open window
Sunset's orange sparklers pale into night
             sea splashes against the promenade
                  the Aegean's aquamarine darkens.

Ship lights illuminate wave foam
            free-form white adobe walls
                         domes of Orthodox churches.

In front of me sits a shallow glass vase
with tea candles floating 
               flickering 
               amidst sprays
               of wild lavender
                              gray-green sage
                                           pink bougainvillea.

I drink the last swallow of champagne
              compliments of a handsome waitress
                     her blue eyes glitter
                                   she smiles
                                              flirting.

Too old for her I think
yet temptation soars
              that old familiar hope
              bladed now with disbelief
                              etched deep over decades.

Oh, to morph into a younger self
             to shed all sense and rise
                              frisky like champagne
                                           all dangers and risks
                                           be damned.

But a friend sits beside me
             a friend who wants so much more
             when I insist on so much less.

The waitress assesses this asymmetry
               stands by amused
                             then hands me another glass
                                             her fingers linger
                                                            promising romance.

My name is Helena she whispers
               Would you like to dance?

We do
               smooth and close
                             feel the heat
                                            the crush of crowd
                                                         the fast beat of music and
                                                         rush from errant touches.

On her clothes
              bar smoke
                             the scent of roses.

At song's end I glance at waiting friend
                receive a jealous crimson glare
                             I return to sit
                                            hear hot words
                                            fired by wine and frustration.

Quietly I sip my drink and don't reply
              raise an eyebrow to Helena
                              signaling regret
                                     revealing sadness.

The waitress sighs
             I crave one kiss
                          she knows
                                         and as I leave
                                         she gives it.

Walking uphill
past windmill sails
spinning in silver moonlight
             my friend and I argue
                            bitterness prevails.

Next spring
              alone
                            I kneel in my garden
                                          planting lavender and roses
                                                        remembering Helena.


About the Author

Laury A. Egan's two full-length poetry collections, Snow, Shadows, a Stranger (2009) and Beneath the Lion's Paw (2011), were published by FootHills Publishing. Her work has received nominations for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Web, and Best of the Net and has appeared in Atlanta Review, Welter, The Emily Dickinson Awards Anthology, The Ledge, Centrifugal Eye, Willows Wept Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Boston Literary Magazine, Lowestoft Chronicle, Best of Foliate Oak 2010, and other journals. In addition, she writes fiction and is a fine arts photographer. Web site: www.lauryaegan.com.