first snowfall of the season
I've always loved the sight of snow in the city
the way it's lit by streetlamps
falling slowly in big white puffs
onto the glistening street
small diner late at night
drinknig coffee in the smoking section
it's got a good atmosphere for writing
I see I'm not the only one that had the idea
she's wearing glasses, has black hair
carrying a small notebook that looks
as if it has often felt her pen
she thinks for a while
pondering, looking around
searching for the right words
then begins writing again
I wonder if that ring means she's married
or is it the wrong hand?
I can never remember
small, neat handwriting antithesis to my own
no cigarettes in the ashtray
maybe she doesn't smoke either
I felt like wandering tonight
and ended here – again
hoping to find someone I knew
maybe this is she?
"excuse me, are you a writer?"
no, that won't work
obviously she's writing and is thus a writer
be she professional or amateur
"what are you writing?"
maybe she doesn't share it with
people
she picks at her chin as she thinks again
slowly stroking her cheek
with the tip of her thumb
with the soft sensuality of someone
lost in thought
or enjoying the beauty of the snow
snow falling on a ground too warm
to accomodate it, and so dies instantly
an abrupt ending to its short floating life
she's joined by a friend
a planned meeting
who orders a hot chocolate
and that's when I realize
that she's not drinking coffee
she takes out her notebook
as she waits for her friend to
get back from the bathroom
and starts writing again
a journal? a story? an essay?
maybe it doesn't matter
she's writing, that's enough
for...what?
it's just enough, perhaps
it just is
my eyes are beginning to hurt
from the haze of second hand smoke
pariah to the purity outside
a bus passes
behind the man with long hair and glasses
flying an american flag

12/16/2001

Posted on 12/16/2001
Copyright © 2024 Gary Hoffmann