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First Snow

by Bruce W Niedt

He sits by a window at the inn,

writing alone in the breakfast room

at the bare oak table,


glancing at the sky,

color of dingy linen,

pre-winter sun done for the day,


cold enough for snow –

raw, damp, but not yet snowing,

his glass of Coke drawing wet circles.


In another time and place,

it might have been a glass of absinthe

in a smoke-soaked café,


where he gazes at the overcast on the Seine.

Across the room, the blind prostitute Suzanne,

laughing with a patron in a dark corner,


wine glinting back from their glasses,

ominous ruby,

darker even than her florid rouge.


Only once had they spent time together –

her hands sang across him

soft and electric, guiding him to rapture.


But he befriended her, and now

he writes of her tragedies –

how she is beaten by men she cannot identify,


perhaps this one, later tonight.

He scribbles her stories

in his yellow notebook


while outside in the darkening dusk

a few unseen flakes

fall and melt into the river.



Posted on 10/09/2001
Copyright © 2021 Bruce W Niedt

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Elizabeth Seago on 01/22/07 at 02:05 AM

How candid and beautiful! I am completely knocked off my feet. Adding this to the favorites. Splendid work!

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