When I go on long journeys,
I never know what to do
To pass the time, so usually
I stare through the window
And see nothing as my
Thoughts take over.

She seems to have it all
Worked out: novel and
Newspaper, and pen for
The puzzles the latter contains.

Their complexity is enough
To distract her from
The early setting of the
Winter Sun, and to fascinate
Her fellow travellers.

Under dark eyebrows and
Darkened lashes, her eyes
Dart about the paper as
The numbers and letters
Form patterns in her mind
And her hand scribbles
Furiously.

She whistles quietly as
I nod to an unfamiliar town
And wonder if she knows
That she is poetry.

12/09/2006

Posted on 01/01/2007
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