Roma Girl

October 16, 2011

In a cafe made of people
with a white cup of brown tea,
leant forward across a table,
sun spreading over seats.

A stack of papers, thumbed
and folded, silver slab
of light and keys,
jacket full of keys and lipstick,
sugar sachets, pocketed.

And the man from Roma,
middle distance,
stirring coffee, Portuguese,

and the seat across, just vacated –
my friend like a hologram
flickering with diagrams
walking backwards,
down the street.


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