I climb the twenty-seven steps to the second floor.
At the landing is a tapestry with the print of a painting, depicting a French restaurant with a Monet painting hanging on the door and a bicycle leaning against the window.
The restaurant is called L′ âme des poètes.
The soul of poets.
For a moment, I think I have the second floor to myself, but I see a woman sitting alone by the window. Though a computer sits on the counter beside her, she’s reading a book. Blonde hair, baseball cap, jeans with a black-studded belt, a spaghetti-strap top exposing bare shoulders. She has young skin, but I cannot see her face.
Antique dining chairs give the feel of an exotic time. And an exotic place. Opposite a piano, an old, well-used brown leather couch hugs a wall by the fireplace. Sketches and paintings of horses hang from dark violet walls. On the fireplace mantel sits a Vintage Asian Mid-Century Elephant Vase and several books of poetry by dennis cooley.
I take a copy of Stones back to my chair, read the prairie-long poetry of this Canadian writer while sipping my coffee, lost in cooley’s words and his cadence, nearly oblivious to the noise of the room as more patrons climb the twenty-seven steps to seat themselves in this eclectic place.
