POEM

The idea behind this poem revolves around a woman being the object of inspiration for a poet--a bard who might write the most beautiful poem ever about this woman that he simply sees in passing, but in fact she may be the lonliest or saddest person in the world.

I saw a stunning woman with a flying multi-colored scarf on the street a few days ago that sparked the projection. It doesn't have a title really, suggestions?

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"A Sketch"

The evening zephyrs lick her bowed pale face,
Her scarf painting soft words in the wind—
Words carried down turreted side-streets to warm window panes,
Where poets watch and listen,
Fluttering fugues that are caught and put into poets’ pockets,
Sipping basement coffee, staring at floor cracks.

Listening to the frothy white espresso machine
Steaming white cream, the mighty taut fountain,
Making stately pleasure-domes, cinnamon and mocha
In porcelain cups, by cigarette butts.
They memorialize her, and sing her joyous song,
With ink-pen and silent-lipped words.

But, lonely she waits in scarf and coat, in line
To buy swollen fruit, to return home and wait—
And one hand to push a blonde lock behind an ear
And one to finger an old silver-chained locket,
Whose carved impression is nearly smooth from sorrow.

The woman behind the white curtain, she waits.
And the poet writes of her grace, while the woman lonely waits.
By the boarded up hearth in her pale heavy room,
She stands in perfume embalmed night gown.
And the woman behind the curtain waits,
And the filament of life trembles.

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