This is the only reality, wrote Sartre,
this public garden and its gravel paths
dappled with sunlight
where women are walking their Pomeranians.

But somewhere else he wrote
that this is actually not the real thing,
this corner cafe on the boulevard Saint-Germain
where the waiter is pretending to be a waiter

and the philosopher at a small table
is pretending to be a customer,
raising his hand now as customers will do
to get the waiter's attention.