The Van Gogh Café

What whisper hides in this secret chamber?
What clandestine aorta lengthens the nerve?
*   *   *   *
You cross a tender wire to enter
the Van Gogh Café. The formal crows serve
from eleven ’til one. They chant specials
across the open sidewalk. It's clean air
over tomato soup in a regal
cup as you draw fingers through tangled hair.
It's bright freezing blue. The headlines are read.
You feel the whisper linger on the crown
that hangs heavy round the soft cardiac seed;
you study Gnostic secrets of renown
then inhale the evening.  Leave the café
wearing a coat patched from a brand-new day.