An egg, boiled fresh
a matryeshka doll watches
somewhere the last train
makes it's way down the tracks
past the lakes
& the reticent pine trees
the street lamps
shine wearily
& again, the rain
is starting up once more
she reads Kurt Tucholsky
' Schloss Gripsholm' with a dictionary
writing down his odd words
daintily as if they were glass,
not to be handled
except lightly the city holds her
like a child