The rain had washed the streets of Ipanema
Leaving puddles shining near the curb
A bar remained half-lit beside the shoreline
The sort of place that never drew a crowd
A jukebox played to almost no one
The waiter wiped the same glass twice
Outside, buses crossed the avenue
Inside, nobody seemed in any hurry
He sat beneath a faded advertisement
Black-haired, thin, a notebook by his hand
A pack of cigarettes beside an ashtray
A foreigner far away from home
Nobody asked him for a picture
Nobody waited by the door
The waiter called him once for closing
He nodded and returned to work
I carried one old record to his table
Unsure if I should speak or walk away
He looked up from a half-finished sentence
Then moved an empty chair my way
He signed his name without a flourish
The pen moved slowly on the sleeve
Then underneath the signature he added
In careful Portuguese
Ao meu camarada
Nick Cave
The rain kept tapping on the glass
Nick Cave
Another cigarette burned past
Nick Cave
The jukebox humming soft and low
Nick Cave
Watching where the evening goes
A woman laughed beyond the doorway
A taxi stopped and drove away
He turned a page and wrote a few more lines
I never knew what they became
A song
A story
A discarded thought
Some things remain unfinished
The city changed
The bar disappeared
The avenue filled with different faces
Friends moved away
Buildings changed hands
The decades carried off their evidence
Now the sleeve has yellowed at the edges
The ink has faded slightly too
But every letter still remains
Exactly where he placed it
Ao meu camarada
I've forgotten conversations
I've forgotten addresses
I've forgotten names
But not those words
Not those words
And not that night