I occasionally fall head-over-heels in love with beautiful people in cafes. Especially when they are reading and just, you know, brooding.
You don’t have to be a poet,
All fringe and trenchcoat, bones and consumption,
Like a gorgeous contemplative gargoyle
Over a latest oeuvre
Poised, like a monument, on a window’s ledge.
Turn the page with a licked finger.
With the other hand, run through your hair.
Is that a frown you pull,
Making more angular your angular features
And drawing out your question
Somewhere on the lick-turned page?
Young enough to pretend to be so much wiser,
The fact that I would be you