He sits to face
An empty space,
Across a table
Where time ago
A chair left bare,
Yet so reflects
A face he loved,
Remains aglow,
Upon a glass
Of pale rosé…
Each forlorn day
In vain he stares,
With musing’s play,
One can near feel
Her presence there,
His mind will trace
Upon the empty chair,
Memory of her face
That will not part
That special space,
Fixed in his heart…
Alas the man
Said of two glasses,
Sits so to face
That empty space
As time so passes,
But for a moment dwells,
On memory only he can tell!
Poetry on a canapé 
Poignantly told.
Thank you Paulette. An old memory of a true story, from my days living in the south of France where for some time, as habitues, we lunched near daily. I could never forget that ‘homme triste’ at a table set for two, with a half full glass of rosé wine across from him for his absent guest, as he always lunched alone.
One day I was told by the restaurant owner friend of ours, that this man’s ritual of two glasses was in memory of his deceased wife, with whom he had lunched at that café for years. I was very touched, never forgot it, and was inspired to write this poem.
Sorry for the blabbering, (might even be longer that the poem) but felt the need to share with another sensitive being… Jean-Jacques
Very touching indeed
Thank you for saying… The piece is based on a true story, that took place in a restaurant where we ate regularly. Jean-Jacques Fournier