On the eve of summer
I fall in love in Nice
with a man I’ll never know.
C’est tragique!, I
say
A la Henri 2, yet I survive.
In that hour I live a year
lusting after a cheerful singer
who entertains us all
before the Irish pub
On the eve of summer.
A rectangle bulges from
His blue jeans pocket.
A black shirt matches the hair
That curls around sweet cheeks.
I love to sing, he says without saying
As he sings, he smiles.
When he waves his hands,
We wave along.
“Celebration,” they sing.
“Good times all the time.”
The crowd cheers and sways
Buoyed by the wonder
Of a day in Nice.
I do the same, yet I’ve come
To a higher plane, an ecstasy
I didn’t expect
On this simple Saturday night
On the eve of summer.
The crowd swells and shrinks
Yet I remain constant waiting
To see him smile and sing.
He smiles the song of life
As his passion rallies the crowd.
The guitarist frowns to himself,
Exhausted from his efforts.
But on the eve of summer,
The singer stays focused.
He must show us the way
As he leads us into the summer
Of our wildest dreams.
When the band stops playing
I seize my chance to rush him.
When I compliment his music,
He’s forced to listen.
“Très belle!” I insist. “Magnifique!”
“The name of your group?”
It takes me three times to understand
The Soul Band, Le Band du Soul.
This I should have guessed.
Whether he likes it or not,
I reach for his hand,
A soft warm hand,
And I shake it.
In three brief seconds
I gather the energy I can
All the emotion he can spare
For an unexpected love
In the middle of the street
In the Vieille Ville of Nice
On a fine brilliant night
On the eve of summer.
