I am trying to tell her
that the coffee in her mug
with the string of bulbed lights
reflecting in her reflection
on the tin table with the discarded
shoes in the alley, red and white,
the way she is tapping her hand
against the handle is romance.
She grits her teeth when discussing
art and politics and the nature
of reading in a park and I try
not to show a grimace at her ignorance.
We mismatched our table cloths
in a state of rebellion.
Rebel against the Queen
she nodded
Rebel against the War
she cried.
I quoted Dickens on the road
up here and said that this is enchantment
and this is where we are going.
She sits still and calm, witnessing
the walls closing, tapping nervously
on the table. The cigarettes are romance.
How? Because of the way she holds them.
I don't see it. Then you are blind.
posted by meg johnson @ Thursday, June 08, 2006
0 comments
