The lights are still bright
Behind the windows that reveal
Her smile to the world.

Serving her last regular before
Closing time, weighing out
All the ingredients I would
Consider trying to make
Something of if I had an ounce
Of culinary ability,
I catch a glimpse of her
As I pass by on my usual bus.

Sitting here in my suit, in
The rush hour traffic, I feel
Like such a commuter
Compared to her, with her
Careworn dungarees, and her
Hair thrown hastily back
And loosely restrained.

Two strings of light wind away
Towards the horizon, but the still
Newly formed memory of her
Vibrance forms a clearer image
In my mind.

Somehow everything seems slightly fake
Now; sounds are distant and tinny,
And everyone seems to be in
Studio soft focus. Perhaps she is
One of the last outposts of reality
In this ever more fictional world
Through which I drift, pulled
Slowly by the undercurrents of
Convention.

Or perhaps I just saw someone
Who reminded me of the person I
Wish to be, and the life I want
To lead, but lack the courage
To do anything but follow.

12/08/2003

Posted on 12/08/2003
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince