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Meeting Geoff in the Plaza
I don't have to sit there long
Before someone I know
Stops to have a coffee with me -
It's that kind of plaza
With cafe tables and plane trees
And now Geoff swings by
And we get to talk about
His latest work, his painting
Of a suicide bombing in a cafe
In the Middle East and how people
Sat there chatting like us
And then they were just... meat,
And what was it that had gone?
I don't see how he'll get this
Question into a painting, but I'm
Sure Geoff does. There's a way
That art has of taking us
Out of ourselves and out of time,
Stopping all the clocks. But
These days, as Geoff now says,
It's frightening how little time
People spend looking at a
Painting in an art gallery,
Even a Renoir. Can a poem
Get more attention? Maybe less.
But in any case, here's Geoff, the artist,
Making his debut in a poem,
Pulling up the chair next to mine,
Catching the waiter's eye
In a poem like a cafe table
In a plaza, where anyone
Can hang out, take their time...
Before getting on with their day,
And not get blown away.
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