and I’m picking my way over
a slick yellow carpet of leaves.
I’m walking east-side,
past moss-covered grave stones,
watching the twilight fall.
I almost stop.
See her coming out of the gloom.
Brown leather trench sweepin’ her thigh,
calf-skin wrapped to her knees,
corn-silk curls spilling
from a brick-red beret.
Boot-heels giving a certain spring,
A certain swing to her step.
Red glove clasping her umbrella,
Wrist turned out just so.
American women do not move like this.
Tall and sure,
Smirk tugging at her lip,
Sidelong glance as she pass by
Reminding me of some
70’s French movie star.
My breath explodes out.
Didn’t even realize I’d been holding it.