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,
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