cc anonymous

"lady i met there, name is christina" from the song "buffalo" by the church

uncertain
which aisle to take
to avoid our eyes
held low and a step behind,
where her eyes cannot follow
i catch the trailing debris
of hurried thoughts
shaken from her skirts
like so many latch keys

untied.
her skirts are bolts of silk unwinding,
watercolors of formless grays
drifting across her hinted form,
december clouds undulating
over barely-secret imaginings
of my almost-blue, almost-september

eyes.
sliding over her hips like hands
and further on i conclude
her concealed legs
must attach themselves
(not only to me, but)
to her ankle peeking out
like a shy child, gawking
from behind the folds
of a diaphanous curtain
at all the gathered, voyeuristic freaks.

regulars
we're called.
coffee creatures and bookworms
slothing about in chairs,
resting chins in hands and
staring, she wishes,
at any of the windows and walls
instead of at her
(carefully-chosen) shoes, gazing,
following the steps of her reluctant child

home
(a place only to sleep).
when the curtains are drawn
and the parental tug
of her stern and steadfast legs,
pulls her ankles along
obeisant, in deference to her purpose,
with a step she sets elegance to motion.
her skirts unwind and become
pink cloudless skies

raining
tiny white flowers
upon a field of red paisley,
a japanese garden
ordered not by days of the week
but some laid out in plaid rows
and checkered plots.

lost
in thought i analyze
the drift of december clouds
past my september eyes
and am reminded by a distant voice
how nothing that i see
and nothing that i feel
and nothing that i write
has anything to do with

her
(flicky, streaked hair or
red cardigan).

9/30/01